They don’t know I’m writing. I’m not telling them. I’m just doing it and seeing that, no one knows but me. I’m talking about what I write here. What I write now.
No one knows, so it’s as if there is no audience. With no audience, I can say anything. Who can judge?
But I judge myself. I judge myself for mistakes. For errors. For sins. For regrets. For even HOPES. What is that? What shall I judge myself of my hopes? Well, they hurt me. And I judge whatever I find hurtful to me.
I don’t know about this mountain. Do I keep tunneling my way through it? Do I leave the tunnel and climb over to the other side instead? Do I walk away from it completely and look for a new landscape? Why the hell can’t I stop looking for things? Or wondering things?
And what is the mountain, anyway? I don’t even know. I just feel like I am digging through one, somehow. Is it my spiritual journey? My life situation? What is it?
I am crying as I type these words because of their truth. They are true and their truth reaches me in spite of the layered veils I’ve wrapped them in. Veils, so that they won’t be easy to see, to understand, except to those who wrapped such truths themselves.
Here is a poem I wrote a couple days ago. I don’t know if I wrote it to myself or someone else I cared about. Maybe there were several people inspiring it, it’s a mystery even to me:
Tell me about you.
Tell me about when you got scared,
And when you stopped being as bold as you dared
Letting lions win with wicked grins
When you traded safety for sin?
Tell me, when did you forget who you were?
When did the jeweled words fall from the crown of your lips
Lost on the ground
Trampled under the stampede of disloyal beasts?
And you yourself were
Dragged by your own scepter as the meat for their feasts?
Tragedy could be made to triumph with one stone
One diamond cut to be shown
-But mostly you-
That the most fearsome thing of all
Is never knowing why you lost yourself.