The Dwelling Place

December 14, 2013 by Aspergers Girls 2 Comments

I am entangled in an unknown arena: a place of darkness with light, a place of light with darkness.

There doesn’t seem to be an opportunity for navigation into the comfort zone. Everything is either heightened into an elevated state of awareness or lowered into an isolated state of escape.

To have a ‘good’ day, whatever one deems good, will inevitably lead to a day categorized as ‘bad.’ Something, it seems, beyond the sensory capacity, evens out the score, applies this cryptic state of karmic leveling, yin-yang doing, or substantial energetic balancing.

It is as if an over-seer self-corrects and steers me back to a place of equilibrium, balancing out all that was undone and compromised, and leading me into the middle point of existence. A place that is incompressible, unrecognizable, and unexplainable.

There is a bleakness to the solidarity, yet, also a hopeful uplifting in which I am made to feel the complexities of both ends of the spectrum of being.

In my living, I am neither on the number line of existence, nor on any recognizable solid foundation. I am substance itself, and all that occurs, exists within me.

Though I continually step outside of self, attempting to navigate the world as I see fit according to the demonstrated structures and laws of man, I again rewind myself, and am led back to the starting point of I am.

There doesn’t appear to be an alternate route. I am not made or bred or substantiated by the power of being to be anything other than that of what I am.

If I navigate too far to the right or too far to the left of the straight line, I am pushed or pulled back by an unknown force that appears to be me. However, even on the middle ground, amongst the avenue of appearing ‘straight,’ I am not there. I am nowhere. I am neither, in this state, uncomfortable or comfortable, I just am.

Here is where I remain, but only momentarily, for a blinking of an eye, and then I am brought back to the equilibrium unmasked, brought back and returned to a place of discomfort I choose not to live.

Again, I am here, fashioned into something or someone I do not recognize and do not wish to be. Again I return to the straight line of nonexistence in an attempt to catch a breath of life, of living, only to be reminded of my own effervescent fluidity, and returned from whence I came.

I belong on a plane that is not a plane, in an existence that is neither identifiable, nor part of reality. Even as the ghosts around me scream factuality and actuality, I recognize the inner hinderances of justifying the existence of naught.

I watch, as observer of self, fluctuating between absorbing the lies of existence and the truth of non-existence. And I am trapped in between the dwelling place of knowing nothing and everything. Made drunk by my own wishing to know, blinded in my actions to soften the blow of truth with the substances of earth unnecessary for growth.

Here I dwindle, with such un-delight, suffering in the cause of my own suffering. Pulling apart pieces of me to find only illusion.

If not I be, then who is this am that apparently strums the strings of hope? And if not I be, then what runs through me so thick like baptized blood of my forefathers? If not I be then where do I stand, and on what legs, and of what existence?

The mind queries from a place of inner dwelling, so deep the waters split and reveal the ocean floor below the ocean floor, the end and the start of the depths themselves.

I am haunted by the makings of my corridors, the inner dwellings in which the image of what I am ponders and stirs in and out of mysteries unwoven and spread out: strings and more strings. The threading I lost in the struggle.

Where am I, I call out, from the darkness. If I be not this angelic form or this demonic device, then what of the voice I hear. From whence does the voice come, and to whom does the voice carry her spirit forth?