embrace your energy
What the Fuck is Energy?
Defining energy as a feeling isn’t good enough. My pseudo-intellectual mind must not be given the time of day without a tangible and deeper meaning behind my words. Vibes mean everything, so they mean nothing. Chained to the phrases used to describe deeper introspection, my articulation falls short. It’s a fucking state of being.
BUT THAT MEANS NOTHING. YOU MUST DESCRIBE IT. DEFINE IT. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
Apparently, I’m a ditz. According to the way I perform, I am acting in accordance with conformity. I could read a damn book, but I’d rather observe. Human behavior fuels my creativity. My experiences drive my inspiration, but what is inspiration without reasoning? And again, what the fuck is energy?
The fundamental capacity of a physical system to do work or produce change. So my body is a physical system, and my work is writing. But then what change is it producing? Feelings?
I told you that means nothing. Over-sensitivity to general concepts indicates a naive mind. Challenge your thoughts to make a real impact.
On who? The grounded ones?
But I don’t want to stop flying. Why can't you just understand? It hurts me to not be seen.
Energy is the evidence we leave behind when our inner world demands expression.
But then what the fuck is the evidence?
I Hate Art
In the midst of life’s chaos, my soul stopped creating. The stagnant character I played suddenly left me unfulfilled as I stood in a room full of people who hated art. Grasping for a glimmer of who I used to be, my new pleaser persona left me empty. In an attempt to create a connection with an artless soul, I lost the art that was myself.
At first, the statue looked pretty in my house. It seemed to fit. In my temple full of art, the statue brought peace to my colorful world. And so, I admired it with all of my being. As I do with everything. Because how can one love something if not to love it fully? With every fiber in my soul, I loved the statue.
Hopeful and inspired by how its strokes would complement my dancing, I consumed its energy. The way it spoke, sat, and stared, it became the centerpiece of my art-filled house.
The truth is my eyes see nothing but art. In my world of expression and love, an artless soul is an incomprehensible concept. Every feeling hits my chest with such force that a statue with so little emotion could never blur my vision. But is my love enough to make a lifeless sculpture sing?
In a quiet house, my love for laughing slowly disappeared. My devotion to pleasing overwhelmed my purpose as I painted over your trauma disguised as peace. Unsettled yet still enamored by the stoic sculpture, I stared at the empty expression that mirrored my lost spirit.
“Little Sister”
I'm not sure if introspection is a bad thing, but it comes at the wrong moments. Sitting together in silence helped ground me. Now, I rewatch cartoons because I know what to expect.
We run from the same thing in different directions. I've adopted your fear of the void, but the way you coped was always foreign to me. My desire for emotional intimacy conflicted with your pragmatic productivity. While you continue to work, I will spend my time playing. I’m comfortable here, perpetually dancing.
If I stop, your absence becomes apparent. I say yes to everything to forget I haven’t felt like myself lately. Searching for a connection, I find myself in a thousand different rooms. People get uncomfortable if I ask them, “What are we here for?” Instead, the life of the party is supposed to say, “We live on a floating rock.”
I learned to breathe meaning into their hollow sentences and perfect my plank. Beauty will get you in the door, but the rooms feel empty. I don’t want you to call me a ride. I'd rather you ask me a question. Are my eyes not worth getting to know? I’ve gotten good at flirting. It makes me forget my love should be earned.
Conversations are easier with my camera. People seem to think that a life that looks good feels good. Videos can only produce an outline. My hair has been getting greasier. I don't want people to notice. It’s from all the running. I hide it so I can stay in the rooms that make me introspective.
Balkan
The only food I know how to eat comes from the plates on my Baba's table. Real conversation is hard to find. They thrive in cultures of insistence. No one here accepts “good” as an answer. If I ask, I want to know.
Baba never believed we were full. Her insistence satiated my soul. I believed everything she said. Like my mom, Baba was always honest. Her spirit made up for the fact that fairies aren’t real.
With her words and music, I learned. Do, Re, Mi. It was one of my favorite things. Fa, Sol, La. Hearing her piano. Ti, Do. We used to sing together. I will tell you about it if you ask.
Honesty can be suffocating at times. I’m not sure why hers wasn’t. I learned yesterday that the note after La is actually Si. The American song says otherwise. Your argument does not become clearer the louder you yell. I was born in a cultural balancing act.
My French Man
What is the motivation behind the words you say? The boys at the bar have no intention behind their instigation. I shouldn't care. We just met. Of course, their attachment to my heart is nonexistent. Intimacy cannot be built on secondhand stories.
Still, I’m allowed to leave. The way it appears is irrelevant. I want to exist beyond observation. But how will they interpret my exit? Unlike you, I hide my hurt poorly. I wonder what they told you. My quick departure probably spoke for itself.
Regardless, it’s better to leave than answer questions. There’s nothing to perceive if I’m not seen. Automated responses have never been my specialty. “ We are just different people" is the easy answer. I practiced saying it in my room. I hear it rolling off your tongue effortlessly as I ramble. I struggle to summarize two years in a sentence.
My resentment is not paired with regret. I don’t think you deserve to know how I’m doing. My friends tell me healing is not linear. It’s been three months. Until further notice, I am doing great. The boys at the bar probably told you otherwise.
Your nervous system keeps you loyal to a life you have outgrown. I tell myself that on the days I refuse to eat. I’m not ready to enter an environment where my smile is interpreted. “I don’t think I have met anyone happier than Sophia.” You liked it when people said that about me, but I’m not sure you would have ever noticed it yourself.
Keep your head up, my love. Summer shines light on the people who notice. The French have a way of making you feel seen. Ginger shots and a bottle of Veuve can go a long way. An unshaven ankle could never wither away my affection. Intimacy comes with remembering.