230811 - Teenage Angst

What am I, except that which is spoken? Is there anything other? I want to believe there is more; an essence, something irreducible. Something that gives it all weight. But in the end I wake up and I am lost. My memories slowly reconstruct the story of yesterday. They tell me who I should be. But am I? At the edge of wakefulness my dream feels more lasting, imbued with soul. There I can paint; I am not limited by the sorrowful inadequacy of physical communication and the untrained limbs of a restful boy. There I can be, my expression taking on the grace and beauty of the unimaginable. Here I’m left with the sadness of barely being able to glimpse my own vision. Can there be? Or are we bound to the plane of that which hides from itself, relying on a desperate hope that there is something beyond that which others see, that the walls we touch are actually solid? Some mornings the unbearable lightness of being brings my heart shaking to the edge of truth. Having seen beyond, how can I march on?