Wisdom of Trees and Imperfections

More than anything, perhaps, I want to be seen. We all wish to be seen. As alive. As humanly. As worth a damn. To have some larger purpose. Or even a smaller purpose, any purpose that feels like anything. Feeling like I'm going through the motions of living, just trying to grasp for even a moment of joy. I think I used to know joy. I think I used to write more eloquently or perhaps, not at all. Reflections on the past are a tainted means for gauging the present and future, I realize. Still, my brain seems bent upon reliance of past experience.

All the days off work have blended together and though I've done things, I could not tell you much of what has happened. I envy those who find ways of enveloping their pain into creative productions. At least there is some visibility of existence. I'm worried I'll fade into nothing, though we all do this some day. Dust to dust or something.

I'm sitting in the new extra room we rent and remember I hate this couch I'm sitting on. The cushion smashes down unevenly and sloppily under my weight. I like the visible filament of the light bulb, but the output of direct lumens agitates my eyes and by extension, my brain. Everything feels like a damn agitation and I feel exhausted by my own self.

This is only but a moment, but it's all I can gauge. It's difficult to trust my perceptions of anything, even of myself. I wish that life could flow through me a bit more simply, for as of now each minute can range from complete agony to moderate tolerance.

Yesterday I biked outside among the trees and didn't think of much of anything beyond what was in front of me. I long for more moments such as those, and for now I focus on the gratitude of that experience. It's a reminder of what could be and has been. Good things, even within a soul that feels like chaos.

I aim to be operational within imperfection. This writing, perhaps, just is. Not perfect and maybe not anything beyond a capture of my brain space in this exact second. Imperfectly perfect, I've read it to be called. Here I sit, agitated by the lights and sounds and business of my mind.  I sit.

In the Grass

This heart of mine, it aches.
Depression or repression of the spirit, the definition of melancholy read. 
I focus on the gratitude that I feel for the many things in life. The stuff I know.
The sky so blue. The grass against my back. For accordion players and laughter.
Be grateful.
Be grateful.
Be grateful.
And I despise myself more than I realize. The active voice of hatred I used to have is gone,
but in it's place remains an underlying sabotage of goals and the havens I seek.
The battle is a battle day in and out and moment by moment.
And then comes the gratitude in the mere moments that seem like they must be happiness.
This isn't the place I consciously choose to be, but here I am.
Journeys of healing never seem to be swift and I suppose that holds the purpose.
Because the gratitude I feel is real. So real, that I use it to remember I once knew joy.
Droves of joy.
Have known it. Will know it again, I reassure myself. Maybe yes or no.
But for now, I remain side-by-side with sorrow.
It is now, but I aim not forever.
For whatever can be forever...?
Neither smiles, nor frowns.
Developing the mechanisms to handle the ups as well as the downs.
This moment: the only one I have.
I breathe the air and remember....I am breathing.