And what i mean by that is…

I am a little depressed the last few days. And what i mean by that is i am being held under a small bag filled with sand that i carry everywhere. And what i mean by that is that sand has a kind of heavy, sodden quality that pushes down on you and is hard to carry around, though sometimes weight feels good. And what i mean by that is that i like it when bodies press on me as in doing contact improv or in cuddling. And what i mean by that is i sometimes have an insatiable need for contact, touch, weight, pressure, just to know i am still here, alive, in a body, to remember my body and not feel that all the pieces might just fly apart. And what i mean by that is sometimes it's so hard to hold it all together—life, i mean and self, and feelings—and i just want to be contained and remembered to myself by another. And what i mean by that is the painful feeling of aloneness, separation, isolation, cold, that sometimes dogs me, making the world seem hard. And all i want is to be honest and real, and the pressure is so strong to be otherwise, to wear our masks, be polite and put-together and comfortable and happy, and isn't it heartbreaking because aren't we all just wanting out of that box?

Sometimes a sense of despair comes over me and defeat when things seem hard and i feel like i'm pushing a boulder up a hill and my life suddenly seems stupid and my attempts at things pathetic and i can see why people just suddenly go ballistic from the pressures of this crazy, hard, disjunct, modern world and the lack of love and recognition of our gifts, and i'm wanting so much to remedy that in so many ways, but it feels like a drop in a desert sometimes. And what i mean by that is i am carrying this sand bag around the last few days and i don't know why and it scares me and i don't want it and i just want to be loved and i wish i could go back in time and fix my childhood so i don't have to feel this way now and isn't life weird?

But i guess it's part of what gives emotion to my writing and compassion to my listening and god knows what all else, probably something beautiful to my dancing. Isn't the Divine weird, how it shows up in everything and is sneaky and strange, the way it's working all the pieces? And what i mean by that is creativity and love and miracles and how things that seem so fucked up are also blessings and gifts and it's impossible to really make sense of any of it with the mind. That's not what the mind is for. And when i see the mind run rampant—like practically everywhere—i want to cry and also to scream.

And i am grateful for writing. That's all i know. So that's what i give.