I've not been writing lately.
Not even journaling.
I think about writing, things I'd write about.
But it stops there, after the conversations in my head about such things.
Sometimes I get insights.
Sometimes I type those insights into words on my iPhone's Note-app, to remind me of them.
But mostly, by the time time allows me to write, my energy for such has dissipated.
The faded conversations get stored in some retrievable or irretrievable space-place.
But is there any such thing as irretrievable?
Are the disappearers...
(those emotions, thoughts, revelations
buried or drowned into oblivion)
are they stored in an internal, mercurial, ethereal, other-conscious world,
seeded to emerge in some other form?
What is that form?
In what fashion does it manifest?
Dis-ease of the mind and body?
Dis-ease of the soul, even soul-suicide?
Not the suicide of the physical,
but rather, the emotional,
but rather, the self,
where one so stifles the soul's voice that it becomes
suffocated,
only to then emerge,
reincarnate,
in a form unidentifiable with its previous form,
at least to the physical eye.
O Exiles!
buried, suffocated, drowned...
Be made manifest!
Be made free...
Such prayer causes me to tremble inside.
But there is nothing to be afraid of.
I am physically safe.
I am mentally safe.
I am emotionally safe.
With my excavation partner
--that is my soul, my essence, my being--
together, we can do this.
Can't we?
I have the tools.
Don't I?
