Unclear are the lines that frame my eyes, the way they change with time, creased from smiles and anguish, heartbreak and love lost. They twist and turn, little fragments of history written on my face. They form words of flesh, hollowed out space where skin was tight.
Blurred lines between borders. The kind that define love and hate, mother, father, son. The lines that mark territory…my son, my house, my street, yet nothing truly belongs to me.
Unclear futures spun in hope and desire, foundations built with no plans in place. The clarity of an open slate. Unclear decisions and the art of learning to trust myself, of trust in general. Seeking, searching in the mist of my mind for answers, the ancient kind spun from gypsies and severed souls who walk with the night.
Unclear letting go, murky inhales and exhales, the pounding beat of blood in my ears, clouded, collected…thick like summer leaves.
The way that autumn strips you of all things, draining chlorophyll, undressing branches and covering the ground in a blanket of dead leaves. Unclear demarcation of seasons changing, shifting winds and crisp clear sky.
Out of focus perspectives and the welcome of the unknown, the state of sleepwalking through days and following the earth’s cycle of death, of loss. A time to reflect where your body turns to blankets, your senses full of smoke from fires. Your words. Your words are still. A sense of waiting, of turning and shedding, of layers and lost cells.
A soft ringing, a muffled, broken bell, you sit in your haze of nostalgia. Twisting memories and quilting them together. Patchwork thoughts. Invisible stitches tightly bound…
The clear lines that separate the internal from external. Fading, erasing until you find yourself an unclear shape, you shrink, you molt. You have turned yourself inside out.