Bedtime Writing that's not a Story

The thing about words is they really don’t lie. I know I’ve said this before, but I’m not sure that, people really know what I mean. Which is to say, I’m not sure that I really know what I mean. Which is to say, I’m not really sure that I’m saying what I mean, the question is, why?

When I look at other people’s words, I read them, which is to say, I read the people. But am I really reading them or is it all me that I see in the words that I read? I guess it’s a combination of the two, the writer and the reader. When I see concern in someone’s words, I feel it, so in a sense the concern must be coming from or originating from within and as me. Or is that how communication actually works; the frequency of someone else's words written or spoken resonates within us and voilà, we’ve got communication?

Some moments ago, I was questioning my decision to write the way I’ve been writing lately. I’m not sure if it’s better to write honestly or to write correctly. The honesty is not pretty and there’s a dark and somewhat painful side to me that I would rather not have people see, but in order to write correctly, correct my writing to right me, I have to get down or go down another level. The words that I write only tell the surface story. Beneath that, though, there’s another story, one that I don’t have words for, not even pictures, but it’s there.

All of the points that seem big and small in our worlds are actually connected to deeper dimensions, deeper realms and what we perceive them to be in reality is but the surface presentation playing out in the design of this reality. For example, my aversion to authority didn’t arise from anything of this life, as far as I know. Yet, from a very young age, the words, “you have to…” used to trigger me. They don’t anymore, but they still trigger the memory of the experience.

I use what I call poetry to facilitate writing about something that I don’t really want to write about. For me, it’s poetry, at least. In one of my recent posts, I wrote something about being a madman, getting old and having unclear vision. I also wrote about knowledge and information, so much that offers so little. This world is a prison, a prism of minds. I can’t figure it out, so I’ve got to stop trying. The trap is to think that I can think my way through my thoughts. The trick is to just stop thinking about it and implement the solution. This is what I'm going to do, simplify the solution, implement it and with that, I'll say good night!