I am a fiction author. I came for creating.
At this point in the journey, I’ve found myself walking;
I see a flawed narrative from a mile away from me.
Because it’s all I’ve been unwittingly ingesting, my cravings have changed.
Reaching high through the chaos for what feels out of my range.
I believe my internal energies to tug and guide me gently.
I delete entire storylines if I see too many of these flaws surfacing.
Not because of them, but because I trust and believe
there’s something in me blocking my blessings,
the beautiful scenery trying to be birthed into my reality.
Trusting there is a process to everything,
allows me to fall gracefully, while maintaining my sanity
and humbling the infinite spirit in me, to remembering.
Perfection is a process not an initial state of being.
How could I appreciate the taste, if I hadn’t been made to wait?
Hungry, starving, then nothing… surpassing feeling. A peace.
Then, sheer beauty consuming, feeding, sustaining, rebirthing.
Imagination, and internal exploration, are a few of the baskets I’ve chosen.
I’m no longer frozen. Fire fell to warm me. Inside then out of my being.
The basket I rest my peace within… I have yet to make a story without them,
Flaws. They don’t define me, but the point in the process of refinement happening.
The signs and the symptoms manifest all around me.
Ever changing to suit my state alchemically. Little clues to quench curiosity.
And feed its fire within me. Does this awareness do anything?
Does it make me queen of a broken internal reality?..
Or a master in the making, a mad-wordsmith practicing on the only volunteer readily accepting my experimenting… I must feel and know and do… everything I am the queen of flaws.
I’ve mastered so many of them. Oh, I’m stupid?
Watch me learn how to read… Oh, I’m deficient internally?
Watch my blood be renewed dietarily/energetically.
There is more truth in the fiction I write than the narratives,
I see flowing downstream from me…