loosening the knot

my finger nails are much too long. i lodge the tip of my tongue underneath one. this comformts me, surrounded in tightness by my own hardened, calcium mass. i feel the pressure of this thin edge confronting the thick and morphing muscle of my tongue. "what does a tongue know about survival?" my finger nail quips. "a tongue which is nothing more than a pompous romeo, making love to language, day in and day out, and calling these flicks and rolls and musclely miming of meaning a purpose!" i meet the pressure of the fingernail with more pressure from my tongue. both have a purpose, though so seemingly different they are in apparence and apparent function. and yet, how nicely they fit, the perfect amount of tension such that the tongue is contained as it ought not to be and the fingernail, lifted up is taken from it's security like it ought not to be. and so, i begin to slowly and deliberately open myself up.

i can parse myself into the tiniest pieces, smaller even than the atom. i can stack my thoughts like the most elegant glass beads, each sphere, cell-like and diaphanous, complicated only by the flush of self consciousness, anger, regret, pride and above all, love. i string myself along a line imperceptible such that when you look at me, truly look at me, you'll think i'm nothing more than a mass of colorful beads, spilling over myself and recollecting as best i can. you might even mistake me for waterdroplets silenced and shaped into a figure somewhat resembling a person. and perhaps you are correct. i am many pieces and yet i am one. how can this be? most days i am one. shedding light as i go, i sweat colors and feelings and impacts that often no one sees, the shine of my beads pass with their reflections. these days i am many pieces but i only notice that i am one. but when i get to thinking about myself, i start to loosen the knot. this awareness is something i like to call the hiccup in the cataclsym. i like staying in this place, turning over each bead of myself and thinking, "now isn't that one exotic?" how strangely magical the self can be.

and in the magical there is the mystery. the mystery for me has always been love. perhaps this is the case for most people but i don't dare speak for the masses. to me, love IS the cataclysm, the powerful surge that sends the beads of my being flying across the vast realm of logic, colors and emotions flung everywhere like the artwork of a toddler. forget the many pieces idea, i am only one. one post waiting for it's bird. forget the calm introspection. surely love is the cataclysm of the heart.