Itchin

I think I've always known I was different somehow.
Not in the sense that I was different from everyone else in a bad way, or in the cliched sense where people say they believe they are an original, though their actions don't prove their claims.
No, just different. Set apart. Special.
Somehow I am going to be used as a tool in the hands of an artisan to create something wonderful.

That my pain would somehow bring others pleasure.

Not in a sadistic sort of way, but in that "My soul can feel the knife twist, and its blood will be my ink" sort of way.
 
Though I try to be transparent, my skin is often thicker than I want it to be.
Other times I'm nearly nude, and there is nothing that I can do about it.
Most times I feel there is so much substance to me, I have to intentionally choose to allow my skin to be transparent so that others may see the words written on my heart.
The light streaming from my soul.
The fire caged in my bones.

The skin on my hand looks thin right now. Dry. One day, it will be more than my dry epithelial layer that falls off. I'll dissolve and become one with the soil. My bones will cry out for the flesh that once kept them in order.
But I'll be far away from that ghastly scene.

Can I rise above the way I see things - even myself - as temporary?
It's so easy to tie in my conscious soul - my true self - with this earth suit I'm travelling in.

Indefinite.
Am I definite?
These thoughts sometimes make me sick.
Paralyze me.
Make my work and dreams and existance feel...useless.
This is the cause of my anxiety.

Were we meant to feel useless? Purposeless?
Does nihilllism fill our veins with life, or at the very least, make this trip bearable?


I want to share the history of this journey with someone.
I think that's all we can do here. Share the journey. It validates our existence when someone else remembers the same moments. It makes us more honest. Makes us feel a little less crazy.
Christopher McCandless said, “Happiness only real when shared.”
I suppose I agree.
But what I want to know, whoever this someone is, is that they're willing to leap off a cliff.
The oppressing sun of fear and doubt will always be shining, and we can't always see the water at the bottom of the cliff.
Someone who can believe torrential rain will fall from the sky to cover up the evil, smiling teeth of the jagged canyon floor that whispers we're committing suicide.

Indefinite beings need to be defined by something greater.
Love. Knowledge. Truth.

A truth that's bigger than the any of us, and streams life directly into our veins.

A force that makes us ache for more than this.
Weren't we meant for something more?
Or is it simply our flesh and souls were intended to be impaled, severed, and left to decay on the cruel stalagmites of time and circumstance?

In the eleventh hour, the heavens invariably crack wide for those who choose to leap.
Floodgates for centuries dammed, burst forth for the faithful.
Covering the canyon floor.