Our shape, our scars and our history determined our path. We are simply canvas. Painted by those who’ve made us. Perhaps more like Jackson Pollocks than Rembrandts.
Masterpieces all, mostly wishing we were different work by other artists of our own choosing, painted into our own corner …
At what stage do we quit blaming, admit we are our own invention, recognizing we CAN be self-repairing?
We are all like darned socks, patches put us right awhile until we wear through that patch.
Or we pick at our own scab, pick a fight – with anyone but ourselves. When we feel we can’t win, we see only no-win propositions. We brood in silence without opinion. Or with opinion, but without our voice.
Who we are is free choice. Our path is choice.
Internal and external, yin to our own yang, who we are inside vs. who we are on the outside is separated by the circle’s wall. Balloon membrane in search of a pin? Or concrete cylinder we must climb out of?
Separated. Or together, because I make it so on my page, in my mind. None of that brings anything together, or separates anything, or keeps people apart. Or together.
When self-repairing zippers fail, we re-zip. Up, down, presto. They fix themselves, do-overs restoring original perfection. I’d like socks like that. And people too …
We are all self-possessed self-portraits, stitched together somehow. We are masterpieces. We are zippers. We are socks. Wounds of our flesh or sock wear cannot be erased or undone. We are all stitched. Like darned socks, our wholes repaired.
written / published from Calgary, AB
morning walk: -2C/29F, early dark/calm, clear, snow predicted. Icy remnants of yesterday’s rain crust the grass, coat the sidewalks and both Gusta and I nearly fell …
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