As of late, my skills of socialization can be likened to the Books of Acts and Revelations– Because I summon my energy from outside sources, only to spew from my lips without comprehension: symbolic dribble and metaphorical discourses. And of course, I know (at least I think) I’ve lost my wit, and I’ve definitely lost my senses. But it could very well be a crippling–& hence–complicated mess of psycho-analytic anxiety, where I become a nervous–heightened–wreck of insecurities. And it’s more than likely I over-estimate the crowd’s curiosity or even interest in me to where I’ve lost not only my senses but any development of actualized sensibilities, any ground level hints or notes of indespensible sympathy or yet-to-be-determined individuality poised against any commonly shared definition of reality. *Sigh*  I need to take a breath, but there’s no breath to get, because when all is (not) said and done, I feel like I’m choking and there’s no way to clear my throat, my voice, my chakra– the port between my essence and the outcome: As in, how come I can’t get the right words out? But maybe what’s caught is not the apparent internal homogenization of content and communication, but more so what I’m missing is not within me at all, but simply I’m a Homo Sapien not in homeostasis. Maybe it’s not me who’s out of touch, or outside the frame and out of line like is defined as anomie by Emile Durkheim. No, maybe the whole picture is blurred, and what’s left is a murky miso soup having just been stirred. As if maybe I don’t need a spoon in the first place, because there’s nothing to choke on, no noodles, veggies, or barley, just broth. And maybe instead of sipping contentedly, I’m merely gulping relentlessly and not giving myself the space to breath. Get me? So, now when I think about which chapter from which book by which prophet I should relate, it’s relatively unimportant, because now I can hear–and can feel–the flow of my own voice matched to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Now I know that the light doesn’t just shine on a select few, and everyone else is stumbling around speechlessly. No, maybe that light is not just light but warmth, a glowing sensation, a realization, actualization, enlightened moment–whatever the fuck you want to call it–because you know it, and therefore, it doesn’t need to be said only felt and all this anxious pondering and this restless rhythmic roaming is blowing it all out of the water, out of the broth, out of proportion. Because Brother, Sister, words will never be enough to envelope all the love that can be shown in a wordless room with me and you and you and you enraptured in the depth of our own being and enjoyment, as in the development of Being In Joy–or ecstasy–like what I really wanted to speak, all along.



One Response to Anxiety:Anomie:Ecstasy

  1. B says:

    …and it makes me recall
    something I read
    from a plaque
    on the wall :

    “ the cadence of cowardness is lost on those with no rhythm”

    even if they can dance,
    they fear to dearly the fall.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: