saiya soublet

i require a very full desk. ever since i quit my remote job, i have been struggling to really find the perfect way to take up space on a pretty substantial desk for someone who prefers the comfort of pencil and paper. but my boyfriend said something the other day that kinda made it click for me: the computer is just like another desk for the mind. i then contemplated what the function of a desk even was and how i could improve that function to fit my own lifestyle/dream lifestyle. currently, the setup is good because i have another monitor and a stationary organizer that i put on the desk instead of a shelf that I have next to it. i'm not sure why i always had the impulse that nothing was supposed to be on my desk in order to maximize productivity. probably the school system. or the lie i tell myself that i'm easily distractible instead of just passionate about the multitudes of the world.

i've added a lot of elements to it that relate to the list of primary passions/hobbies/career endeavors i seek out. i know that it's a bit weird to lump all of those things together, but i am of true belief that i am someone who may be cursed with all of them entangling without my say-so, mostly for my benefit if i were to actually believe in the star-power i possess. my final touch was placing my camera below my monitor: a reminder that i bought that expensive thing to be used and cherished as a conduit for the things i love, after all i do not just get the impulse to buy without deeply analyzing its favorability in my life's journey. tldr; word? an investment. everything pertaining to my goals right now (writing a novel/article writing, regulating my nervous system, blogging & vlogging, writing coaching, and playing piano/singing) are given little reminders of a spot on the surface of my desk that could keep me both comfortable and engaged. trust and believe i made a great big hole able to be made when i want to have some writing time in a notebook instead of a tumblr text box.

i do feel as though i may need some sort of keyboard besides the one on my mac right now because it's causing my to slouch a bit more forward than i want to. another thing that could be affecting that is the fact that i enjoy crossing a singular leg under me to get into a writing flow. there aren't that may chairs that are compatible to that that are in my budget right now, but putting the chair all the way down and making sure the computer is closer for now solves the issue. for now. before i get my cool new accommodations.

wreaking havoc on the stains already there

for where does one go when

there is no way out but up.

2 in the morning a carolina wren calls

and two other birds seem to clamor

to the yawning souls hoping

to ask the trees for the answer.

the greens on the leaves stain my eyes

with adoration for the stars above

to reach down and savor

the sweet blackberry nectar off of the ground.

sinking deeper

and colder still

i find myself wading into darkness

and i never wanted to be here.

to be weight

to be density

to be grief

to be regret.

and hollowed out

and torn apart

and used up-

For a while now, I have noticed that I haven't really been using my eyes. I noticed this while at work, scooping ice, and hearing the loud crunch of it being scooped up and put into the bucket. One particular scoop seemed to give me a brief awakening where my eyes finally came back into focus and I could feel the texture of the ice through what I was seeing rather than thinking about and doing everything else despite.

And I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking about how much I had stopped using my eyes. I can't stop thinking about how I always ask God for signs and then I never use the eyes that he gave me to see them. Sitting on a picnic bench outside of the restaurant waiting for my ride, I decided to look at the trees on the horizon for the first time in a while. The texture of leaves and the shape of the waves within the river's surface.

At first, I was troubled. I felt as though I had missed so much these past few months-hell, years-that I could never see again. But that feeling subsided pretty quickly when I realized that I had so much more in my life to now see.

I think, honestly, this is one of the main contributors of my difficulties with visualization and belief in myself. It was so hard to see myself as being the successful version of me or to see myself doing the things I have always dreamed of doing. That's because I had lost the ability to use my eyes, the main muscles that helps me see in all ways. After the ice, I realized that I had not done a very good job at being present despite being someone who preaches it daily.

Recently, I've been trying to read like I used to again. Staying up until 3am, finishing whole books in one sitting and minimum breaks. I miss it so much. At first, I thought my problem was that I was just sleepy. I always read in my bed, and had no issues before. After all, I am working a lot, using much more mental and physical energy than before, but that wasn't it. Today, I read words for the first time in a while. The difficulty I had with reading was because I was thinking more than I was just reading the words on the page. Reading became difficult, long, exhausting, and full of distractions.

I feel like I can finish more than one book in the next week now, and you have no clue how happy that makes me feel to be able to read again. To be able to see the life that is happening in front of me again and having a deeper clarity of my life ahead.

For the past few days, I have been feeling this anticipatory feeling. The feeling that something new is breaking through the surface for me, but it's extremely frustrating to not know what it is yet.

Today, I met an author at a convention for nerds (like me) who wrote parody books. This one in particular was really funny to me, called If You Give A Bunny A Beer. I thought it was so interesting how life can take you down a path to creating a series of books like that and sell them at a convention; I thought about how hard that process must have been to get into the physical world and out of the labyrinth of the mind.

The Fool, The Chariot, and The King of Pentacles describe my past, my present, and my future which all seem so directionless. A tarot reading I got from another artist at another booth, continuing to feel the spirit of inspiration and artistic integrity throughout the convention. But where did I stand? I left the interaction feeling airy.

Often I look to those who are doing things unimaginable to the small me, and I try to stretch myself into their body to study what exactly they did to finally be comfortable enough, content enough, bold enough to stand where they are now. But in doing so, I can only identify their stresses, how it must have felt to get there, and I get stuck in that process. I suffer through an infinite amount of anticipation for the moment to break free and shatter the world I once knew. I long to be broken open someday, any day now.

What am I anticipating? What am I intuitively feeling that is slowly walking across my being frozen over by discontent. I feel so paradoxically grateful for the two jobs I have when just two blog posts ago, maybe, I had been in tearful prayer for just one chance to make money again. And now that I am here, greedily with two, I still stand guiltily unsatisfied and awaiting something bigger.

I know that my life is not handed to me, that opportunities are forged by my own hand, but what of that hand if it cannot fathom reaching the heights it desires. Do I close my eyes and downplay the fall from grace, shattering like Humpty Dumpty into something anew? A chance, is all I ask. A chance to show the world the rawness of who I am, unafraid.

My spiritual depth perception feels off, so I cannot tell what is close and what is far off. Maybe that is not for me to know. Maybe it is time for me to close my eyes, and trust the fall.

My yearning is complicated, exhausting to the point that I can't even enjoy being high anymore because there are so many things pulling my heart in a direction that seem dream like and hallucinogenic. And if I were to take a risk, I have not known what that risk would be for months. I am exhausted from work, but the work is not done. All that I can muster to understand is that, at my core, I just want a chance.

Whatever that may mean, just give me a chance.

-

trippin'

but it feels good

to be outside of the mind

for once where things dont matter

which makes it mean so much more to me.

What if I made myself unapproachable to see who would dare to even approach me? To make myself none to see who would find everything? Quiet my mouth and tune into my mind to feel who is on the same frequency.

I'm not very sure what you want me to be. I can be nothing but me; if that uneases you then you're free to leave. If you read too much into my silence or posture, melancholically existing in one piece. Shit, must everyone know everything?

I no longer exist as the martyr I once regarded myself as. The nails are coming out of my hands and my feet. My lungs no longer bob up and down for the sweet release of death. Self-crucifixion is the crux of what I long for most in this life- to finally be regarded as a hero to past versions of me. But I am killing them slowly with my worries and doubts. I am staking their claim and burning their passion to water it down to my tears in The Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus and I wept, but only he got up to actually do what must be done. 

I am not the saint, hung upside down because of the perspective my parents drove into me. Nor am I the Hanged Man because I choose a different path. I can see the rainbows of God’s promise to me and the world; I forget so easily the rain that has come before it. Why, then, do I not choose to live? There were already a multitude of those who died for me. Comfortable am I with the agony of blood seeping deep within the wounds inflicted on my mother to consecrate the birth of the divine self. I pool together my pain into a cross-section between me and the things that I want most. 

But destruction leads to destruction which leads into destruction. And by choosing to die for my sins I only, thus, perpetuate a cycle that God so desperately wishes would stop. If eternal life is waiting for me, where does it stand? Beyond the veil of a death so brutal and barbaric that even hell is scared to show its face? Or was it at my door? Did I walk past it, too busy grunting at the weight of a cross I was never meant to carry? 

Well then, I choose to live. 

i asked my story watchers to give me 3 words and i would make a mini poem

is no longer fitting in my shell

to anguish and squeeze

into a home no longer comfortable

choosing to condense

ignoring the aching hands

that now only know to

strangle instead of warn.

please.