How the fuck am I supposed to write an article when I feel like my whole life depends on it?

How am I to speak when I feel the weight of my future hangs on one word?

What word should I choose? My favorite, effluvia—effluvia: curling vapors, currents—my exhalations both heavy with gravitas and weightless. Usually defined as rank or odoriferous, in my personal lexicon, effluvia is the sweet, sweet funk of the soul.

I struggle within the confines of the word count, tangle myself in thread, attempting to tailor my thoughts to feel suitable, fresh and appealing.

My mind leaps, boundless, through ideas for articles and to settle—to pick just one—is like attempting to snare a hare with the invisible cords that conjoin the constellations. One idea seems as though it will flow out smooth, concise and elegant, yet when my fingers touch the worn keys of my rapidly aging laptop, I pull the reins of the galloping words, coming to a jilting halt that bucks me from the flow—the first of many fallen logs of ego that I feel it must leap over.

Who am I to speak here in this arena, so broken and tattered?

This yoga-less, weight-lifting, workaholic word-machine with masochistic tendencies left, right and center—both the good kind and the bad kind—and more anxiety issues and self doubt than a hoard of yogi hippies could shake their sticks at.

Is it possible to be enlightened when one suffers? Someone so haggard and cranky, especially so on this day, today?

(Perhaps I’m ireful and doubtful because the sun is so bright and I’ve been waiting for summer thunderstorms with electric anticipation. Waiting for the sweet skies to boom and flicker, and the past two days have been but cloudy clit-teases.)

I lash in the plight of the seemingly inexperienced, the struggle of the spineless, easily swayed by the views that I assume others have of me.

I lean my ear into my heart-wood. I hear it pulse and flicker.

Yes, yes, I struggle still. I struggle with my inner demons, my sorrows and my woes. Ah, but these bitter nitrate fertilizers yield fruit. Though they are a small harvest of bizarrely shaped beauties, and they may be procured through means which differ from many, they are sweet and succulent nonetheless, with just the right amount of tartness.

It takes a lot to step up to the podium, midst the seraphic cries of those seemingly exalted, casting such vast shadows.

It takes a lot to stand and proclaim “I have something to say.”

I look back.

My shadow is long and dark and deep. It is rich and moist, like the black soil of the earth. From it scintillating flowers grow.

My voice sits in my hand.

The voice we all have. The right to speak. Our wounds to share, our scars to bare.

Enlightenment is temporary, but it does not leave us unchanged.

Oscillating away from the fleeting illumination of perfect balance and ultra-harmony, the resting state is not unaltered. Flux is constant; the wheel of pain and pleasure give us contrast and depth.

Yeah, it takes a lot to realize you matter just for being, that the truths you’ve plucked from the garden of your soul have a perfume just as sweet as those of another. It takes a lot to stand tall and express the substance of your being.

It’s hard to realize you, too, are beautiful and your words weighty with import. It takes a lot to remember you have a spine that would stand tall if only you would let it. It’s always nerve-fizzling to play in a new concert hall.

You look out over the audience and wonder who is listening.

Your hair is turning in accordance with the season of your life. You don’t mind. Life is too dazzling to worry about a few snowflakes in your tresses.

I’m standing at the podium, tapping the mic, collecting my thoughts and spinning them out right.

I may be bleeding and torn, but that means that I’m living, which means I’m doing something right, even if it’s not perfect.

I may be imperfect, but I know that my voice has power.

I may walk a different path, but it intersects and runs parallel to yours.

I may not have a calm mind, but I’ve got a passionate spirit that won’t fucking quit.

I may not know how to get there, but I sure as shit know where I’m going.

I’m giving you a ring cause I’m halfway there.

I hope I never reach my destination ‘cause this ride is wild, something awesome, and the wisdom wondrous and endless if only you know where to look.

I’ll see y’all when I wake up from the long dirt nap.

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Assistant Ed: Kate Spano/Ed: Bryonie Wise

{Photo: via Pinterest}