Half Asleep, What Can I Do?
I spend most of my life tired wondering what ventures I can do or accomplish next.
Over 20 years ago my full mental capabilities were taken from me. Now my brain gets too tired—but I still feel like a kid. I still relish childishly in floppy flowers and floppy hats, and still have a huge opinion.
I many times feel restless and impatient with the time on my hands. Once I’ve mapped out—and have found—my wonderful now new current journey or project, I’m still restless in the moment.
The only place I found myself in peace is when my brain is lost in mythology—ancestral and social. I can also get lost in others to this. But how much can you get lost in this?
I felt to keep my brain there all the time—it was my only resting point, journey, and salvation.
If I wasn't talking to our past ancestors—reaching for the mums and dads in old paintings, manuscripts, and artifacts—you know what I’m doing I peer over my shoulder to the museum staff, I’m sure they were calling security, I would push to the farthest limits in universe desperately for the excitement of the connection.
I initially felt I was to pass on some kind of survival message, but then found it was just to make me magical and different—which I love, and no one seemed to mind.
Though I would do ordinary pranks like any other kid to this, I still seemed to have a magical power and those dealing with me and bringing more to them would love my aura of good fortune.
It was my calling.
I was a princess. I was a God. I was worshipped. I was an angel on earth.
Whatever it was, I was blind to share, and had to have constant contact with it or my body and mind would get very frustrated. For this, where it appeared--I have to share.
I can't help thinking about the kids. When I want to give up on society I think of the kids. I think of the kids in as much pain as I am in now and have been in living in the woods. For this, is what keeps me connected to any kind of societal mean.
To take a child from you, your body—literally physically ripped, without question or answer to it, was all too much for me to ever make sense of as a teen.
Being got drunk at 16, having balloons used on me as condoms, and being tossed, thrown, flunged in fun and even punched out of anger was what somehow the universe allowed to my body. I was never really present—just held onto in life until the right person came along for me—perhaps in love, perhaps in survival.
I was a child, happy in most part, waiting for a dream, waiting to live, waiting for permission to live.
I remember the pain at home at the dinner table feeling physical emotional pain to burst. I learned not to talk, but my much needed connection to the universe left me wanting to burst.
It wasn't much further down the road that in my mid to late twenties the same bad physical feelings and approaches upon me came again. Now was the time my permanent resting point of my brain that needed so much with its born enthusiasm had to fight its hardest.
I had always loved music. I would scream songs while drying the dishes with my sister. I was annoying. My mom would support me.
At the worst of my injuries my mom told me to sing—I was in my forties. I said okay. I didn't know how I was going to do it but my universe was there reconfirming her request and I knew I would. She recluded the conversation comparing that love to the love of the Portuguese artist, Nelly Furtado. At that point I could see my mom’s intelligence more than I had ever, and knew how smart she really was.
My mind turned off.
She had a beautiful voice. She would sing all day to the radio. Usually slower songs, I remember most when I was young.
I would get restless as a child and she would make me lay down on the linoleum floor to the music playing when she would nap on the couch above.
I began to hear others cries and inner wisdom to others pain and the course of it lyrically. Everything started to rhyme.