Nightmares In Jeopardy

A nightmare came to me like a morning dream. I was fooled by the bright lights from the sun and a soft voice in my ear. Yet, there I was – stuck in a thick sweat – drowning and crying out for help. Reflections of my childhood came as a series of bright flashcards. My old church // Childhood Trauma // My dog Rocky I had when I was 12 // Making food with my grandmother in the kitchen // Marbles dropping on the newly laid tile floor // When I realized I could talk in my head // The Time I tasted a rainbow on the ground for the first time.

These all came to me like bright visions all entwined in a early cold sweat.

I screamed in terror because I couldn’t understand what was happening to me. In my waking life, I’m reminded of the words and stories that have been hidden in various pockets of my mind’s eye. Stories I neglected to share because I didn’t know what they could mean or reveal for the future.

Maya Angelou said it wonderfully:

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Inside of us are stories that are untold. Some terrifying while others are delightful. Stories that must be told, otherwise they reveal themselves through my dreams and our subconsciousness. The freedom and dare I say – vulnerability in speaking those hidden stories can mean several things for different reasons. Scars remind us of the pain that came before. The evidence of such experiences isn’t always what the mirror wants to face. These scars are a record of the numbers that have been calculated and those calculations are the visible framework of those experiences that are added and subtracted.

Upon the math of these scars which visits my dreams, I have more questions to ask. These questions narrate which direction I’m headed. The very act of writing is liberating. It entices thoughts unvisited in speaking range. It’s such a divine feeling to write. To get it right with what’s written. Feels so casual and simply conversational. Writing makes room for where there isn’t any. It just gets in the way and then before you know it – you start asking the hard questions that visit you in your nightmares. Jeopardy finds a new home in my nightmares, but it’s cool because those questions build the story inside.

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What makes our experiences true is what gives us clarity to the lie in why we beLIEve.

 

The Guest and The Artist

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I am the guest and you are the artist.

Show me what ways you will bow to my inspiration?

Serenade me with the gift of your elegance!

Write unto me – the secrets of your most vulnerable moments!

Moments in which your suffering becomes the chief conquering.

Words which can excite colors – reminding your processes, to utter refrains of contrast.

How deeply the levels go and of how they maneuver through uncertainty.

Boxes are formulated identities, intended to help us categorize.

Living against their purpose allows the individualistic mind to champion with an organism.

Even prisms of shadows are tangible.

Visibility of stories makes a constitutional frame. 

Through the expression of the artist, the guest can then sit down. For they are apart of the individual experience witnessing the ways in which the artist’s story, connects to them.