Old Enough To Know
I am old enough to know that though I am the snowflake, unique and divine, I too melt into the familiar element of water.
I am old enough to know that I am seen by eyes of discernment and reason, divided and mixed into an illusion by the creator.
I am old enough to know that in a world of invented polarities, that if chance lives, then so must destiny.
I am old enough to know that to hold my deepest carved pain is to embrace the manifestation of sorrow as majestic joy set a slumber.
I am old enough to know that what I put inside comes out, and thusly, what I put out enters within.
I am old enough to know that I exist in the meeting point between question and answer, a universal foundation behind an imaginary zero.
I am old enough to know that I am thought, put together into a recognizable form based on experience.
I am old enough to know that I heal from without, by reaching beyond the limitless of accepting into the recognition of collective.
I am old enough to know that if time were to exist then I be but a child aged backwards.
I am old enough to know that truth exists in the absence of all sense and the absence of thought.
I am old enough to know that through the windows beyond the depths of my molecular structure, I am old enough to know.
~~~ By Samantha Craft, November 21, 2012
What do you want from me? I have endured so much suffering on so many levels for so very long, and I have remained loyal and faithful and true. I have never betrayed you or your wishes. I have continued to try my best, and try and try. I have prayed. I have wept. I have fallen down again and again. Even when I could not feel you, I rose up again and carried on. I am light. I know this. But I am darkness. And the darkness engulfs and strangles and terrifies, the intensity unnerving and never-ending. Tormented in dreams, in thoughts, in knowings. Seeing things others cannot. I am not an angel. I am not without end. I am not infinity. There is a point within me that ends. I feel it. I feel the wall, the pressure and the might of the world upon me. I cannot play these games of war, where I am both the feud and the field, trampled upon by my own doing. There is so much of me, that I swim and drown, and come up again breathless for your love. And you reach down, and hold, only I cannot feel you or know you—some form of absence you be. All around me are vibrations and energies and touch, a rhythm, and endless rhythm of three. You haunt me with the comings of protest and acceptance, of looking and revealing, of touching and stinging, of turmoil released, to only reveal more turmoil. I am layered and then layered again. The filling between me sectioned with micro-prisms of expansion. I am universe upon universe. I am told the secrets and the whispers, hearing the righteous words; yet walking alone. The treasure is thick and burdensome, and unfamiliar to strangers. I am mocked for what I carry or accepted for my secrets alone. My beauty is skin deep when draped in the mystery of you. They want not what they see, but what they feel, and I am made to weep as a vessel forgotten. I have pleaded, this small delicate one, from the insides of canvased walls, a babe weeping to her master. I have cried upon the fabric of night, the casing decorating my very soul, as tears carry away the mystery thus revealed. Humbled and humbled again, and still yet I beg for humility. A prideful veil I wear to match those with which I walk. I am moved asunder, beckoned by truth, yet ever made to be this flesh. For whatever it takes, I am yours. For whatever it takes, I am—as a wrecking ball upon myself, I crash and crush, decimating the horror within. I reach, further into desert soul, to bring out another upon another of mystery unknown and unspoken. And still you come, with chain and ball, to set the ways upon me, this child forlorn.