When is it enough, why it may never but that's enough

✶My book started as a song review of the song "I Carion" by Hozier at the very start of 2025. To feel so hopelessly understood in music, the rhythm tickling my brain for details to connect and mingle with. However, within that idea a new one grew. My lifelong dream to fly, with the legend of Icarus writing the song, gave me a new perspective. The one where people are stuck in survival, especially now with life's burdens knocking at their front doors. I found the patterns within some people and myself of adapting and living within your service responses and how this really separates people's personalities. Feeling myself at a new depth within myself writing this, I found myself still writing to the world, but a world that was mainly myself. I have left this passage relatively untouched to that moment, nostalgic for digging out my casketed mind. I have it more times than I'd like to admit, working each time, though, in reminding myself of my own patterns. I lose myself too, sensitively, almost daily, in my ambitious passion for life. I leak in every hobby, community I join, and idea I spur to life, forgetting to feed the lake or it'll all run dry. Now I find myself seeking my value of enough, enough when all you want is to live but must sleep sometimes. The duality of sun and moon. To really love and aspire to the sun, you must do the same for the moon. To evolve in phases within a cycle, black to my white, scared to be grey. ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

✶⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢨⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⣠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⣤⠤⢤⣀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠐⣿⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⠴⠒⢋⣉⣀⣠⣄⣀⣈⡇

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⡆⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⣾⣯⠴⠚⠉⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⣤⠏⣿

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡿⡇⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⡿⠿⢛⠁⠁⣸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣤⣾⠵⠚⠁

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠱⢄⠀⠀⣠⠀⡇⢧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠖⠁⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⠿⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⠀⣀⡠⠞⠛⠁⠂⠁⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡈⣻⡦⣞⡿⣷⠸⣄⣠⢶⡟⠁⠀⠀⠀⣀⣴⠟⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠠⡤⣾⣙⣶⡶⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣂⡷⠰⣔⣾⣖⣾⡷⢿⣀⣀⣀⣤⢾⣋⠁⠀⠀⠀⣀⢀⣀⣀⣀⣀⠀⢀⢿⠑⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⡦⠴⠴⠤⠦⠤⠤⠤⠤⠤⠴⠶⢾⣽⣙⠒⢺⣿⣿⣿⣿⢾⠶⣧⡼⢏⠑⠚⠋⠉⠉⡉⡉⠉⠉⠹⠈⠁⠉⠀⠨⢾⡂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠀⠀⠀⠂⠐⠀⠀⠀⠈⣇⡿⢯⢻⣟⣇⣷⣞⡛⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⡷⡛⣛⣼⣿⠟⢙⣧⠇⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠰⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣴⢶⠏⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠿⢠⣴⡟⡗⡾⡒⡿⠯⢏⡅⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⢀⣠⣧⣀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠚⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⢴⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣷⢿⣫⡽⡿⠿⠗⢷⠀⠀⠑⣗⡀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⣿⢭⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡴⢏⡵⠛⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣴⠞⠛⠀⠰⡟⣿⠀⡌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠢⡀⠀⠀⠂⢿⠘⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⣀⣼⠛⣲⡏⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⡾⠋⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⣧⡟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠣⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⡴⠟⠀⢰⡯⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⢴⠟⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⡾⠁⠁⠀⠘⠧⠤⢤⣤⠶⠏⠙⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠘⣇⠂⢀⣀⣀⠤⠞⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠈⠉⠉⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

✶⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

This is a musical masterpiece constructed through binding emotional experiences and perspectives, as well as holding strong symbolisms to the Greek myth of Icarus. The one who flew too close to the sun and fell to his demise after realizing his delicate and cherished wings were made merely of feathers and wax. The story follows Daedalus, a gifted craftsman, and our Icarus, who are imprisoned by their king. This is what brought the idea of wings, to fly to higher grounds above all the sorrow below. Listening to this song with this in mind, I found that the artist's words are to portray the metaphorical wings that everyone holds, rather than the physical attributes within the myth; it is the attribute of human connection. Daedalus warns of this plan due to the sun holding the power to blow the feathers apart, and the ocean waves around you will weigh them down until you’re faced with them head-on. As most know the rest from here, the sea where Icarus fell to was named after him, the Icarian. Just from this, my mind scatters: everyone has the ability to fly if they would just acknowledge their wings, and that's the problem. However, just like an idea is an endless possibility of ideas, you must hold perspective to navigate them accordingly. Everything is an option; not making an option is even an option. However, consequences built through experiences and the perspectives you gathered from them tell you what isn’t a grand idea and what might not be. It's just a simple adaptation, just like you learned as a kid that fire is hot and you shouldn’t touch; over time there are mind fires that you learn not to touch. Sometimes that is a good thing, but other times I’ve learned that's not the case. The stoic mind teaches you that being comfortable can stunt growth. As you interpret and read this, consider focusing on some stoic pillars of wisdom, justice, courage, and temperance that speak out to you directly. Specifically, the whys within that draw all of you to the same conclusions, perhaps, but uniquely yours. I challenge you to a game of seeing maybe a new rainbow in the suncatcher of ideas and possibilities; make your high score of ‘uniquely the same’ more ‘unique though the same.' You’ll see that it’s a game to guide you into finding hidden truths in my story and your own.

✶⠀

Human instinct is to follow or lead; many examples are present if you think about that concept alone, and through this, we discover the subcategories of this fact. Fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. To the newfound comprehension of free will usage, as well as what you do with the unfound knowledge of the true possibility of being uniquely the same. It’s a natural and rooted instinct that is gained through life experiences, which are key aspects that make you who you are throughout life. However, just like everything else, you hold the keys to change your core and to achieve and be whatever you so please. This being what can make or break your path also. Never finding and growing into your chosen self is one hardship, but never finding stability in control is a whole other, my idea of wasted potential. Will you fight your way for, through, and/or beyond your life's journey? Maybe fly above it and soar through the clouds with the risk of kissing the sun, or will you stand still kicking the rocks in front of you? Flight, to me, has specific subcategories within it: the ones who fly distracted and the ones who fly with a destination. Distracted, you’ll be as good of a pilot as a baby bird. Yet, the ones who seek, the ones who aspire for more, fly higher grounds, praying to never kiss the floors or ceilings you despise. Flying can leave you astray but is also what allows for a way of growth and movement on your path. The ones who won’t, can’t, or simply don't fly, for one reason or another, remain. This is a golden example of a combination of survivalistic instincts. To stay frozen in a life that too easily moves past you, you can mix fighting to stay or to leave with freezing over more. For or against, they fight or fly, which is as emotionally complicated as it sounds from my observations. The ones who question and stand for what they believe in loudly or quietly, or the ones who don’t loudly and proudly. The ones who FFFF (fight, flight, freeze, fawn) more are a smoothie with flavors of purpose, stubbornly consumed or deliciously felt or in control, or the ones who are lost in the realities of their responses. Those who cannot or will not accept the given knowledge or circumstance they’re faced with turn to ways of internal conflict; they may fight for better or worse, flying higher or lower in navigation distress. Freeze, stand still rather than cause chaos, right? Right, that's why we freeze all the time for no reason, it seems sometimes. It’s when those other options feel impossible, and a mixture occurs when you want to unfreeze within that impossibility. To observe and nest cozily in your tree within the world that moves around and past you. This response can be rooted in fear or uncertainty, or the idea of comfort and unwillingness to break out of what’s safe. Unknowingly or not, with justification or not. Justification is merely the true argument of perspective, but it's an amazing tool to see if the elements with the perspective are secretly surviving. It’s the idea of never leaving your hometown or home state or country. Never seeking growth and standing still on your path, some will be fulfilled with this, whilst others are oblivious. While yet enough don’t know how to even start to break free from the casket of your mind that only traps death and life in a box and truly holds you back. So what is a fawn, you may ask? Fawn is one I initially overlooked but holds depth. The act of extreme people-pleasing, which results in a lack of or unstable boundaries within others and yourself. To be hypervigilant and in a sense submissive in the way of disconnecting your wants and needs and connecting with your environment. The idea of the pretty girl trying to flirt and appeal to the killer in a horror flick. To avoid the given threat by being of use, serving, or bonding with the aggressor. This being like the other big F’s and love mingling with each other and making emotional smoothies. To hold a fawn and fight could be to fight for or against the killer to maintain peace and can be remixed with freeze. To be stuck in the submissive mindset to please, with flight instincts and leave, or truly just suck, people-pleasing yourself in the killer's freezer. With this in mind, you can discover a lot from people and how, no matter what the circumstances, it always falls under these vague statements and pieces that branch out to trees of their own and lead back to everything being one. As you read this now, everyone perceives this statement differently; you can acknowledge and discover, wall up and prepare a speech, or ignore and be intransigent. If you corroborate, dismiss, or contradict my words, remember to think about where you fall in this and where you’d like to fall instead. With this in mind, the music wonderfully illustrates the emotional state of being held down and yearning to fly outwards while keeping it simple enough for personal interpretation. The light of the future can be as blinding as the reality of the light of the sun; fly with direction or brace for the fall. I am one who flies. I seek more; I yearn and aspire to be more, and staying grounded builds a sense of hatred for my environment. That is my core, and I’m fulfilled with it; however, to hold real power over your life is to have control. Knees have been scraped, and wounds gash open just to only close with the curse of endless time, but the first step and door to go through will always be acceptance. Let’s pause. Do you fight your memories or take them as they are? Memories are all you are; they are rooted within your bloodstream and wired through your heart, programming your brain to build you as a person. Memories are made without even trying; however, you hold the choice of allowing them to consume you or be a part of you. Accept life and its punches, for they are if you want the bruises to fade; if not, they can turn infectious and slowly kill parts of you. Do you fight these punches or fight through them? Do you fly away from them or fly at them head-on? Do you just take them and embrace the bruises to come? Memories are keys to doors on your path and may lead to crossroads of choice.

✶⠀

You have the power to handle any situation and push through any struggle by accepting the circumstances for what they are and knowing that if it’s meant to be, then it will be. You don’t have to be happy doing it; you can be unmotivated or bitter, but to reach truly better views, you must embrace that fact of acceptance. You’re never alone in this matter, even if it seems to be the most sure and suffocating fact you believe in. I’ve seen and had to surpass people who get held up in their own contradictions. Through experiences and their reminiscences in the form of memories, unable to be helped due to their lack of acceptance of the past. No one is sick, trapped, or doomed; the mind is a powerful thing, especially when control is lost. Stay rooted, dear one.

✶⠀

✶✶✶ 

Are you willing to suffer an inevitable hurt for what you so desperately desire and long for? Everything will inevitably hurt you; in turn, what will you do about it? Do you accept the risk of pain and embrace the power behind the hurt, or do you fight the hurt? Will you fly away from the pain of tomorrow or stand still awaiting its never-ending wave of punches? The ones who fly too far are lost. The ones who never poke their head outside their own won’t grow, and the ones who do make their lives extraordinary, but only if they acknowledge they can. Once a reality is found, it can be shaped; everyone has the power to alter theirs if they accept the fact that they can, which starts by accepting that fact alone. Everything is a web with it leading to an endless new thing: the power of links. Coming back to the song, "I Carrion" is a somber love theme that dives throughout the suggestive languages of strength and flight that are all found through emotional connections between individuals and personal moral values, built through your own endless new. More importantly, this song perfectly describes how powerful human connection and personal light are when faced with a heavy, burdensome, and power-driven reality and how even then this simple act alone can make or break your direction in life. Perspectives change lives, and changing lives changes perspectives; everything is an endless idea, and an idea is the power you enable it to hold. Everything is an option; every door is unlocked; the hardest step is the first. I view life like a circle; when you zoom in, it's a spiral of life, and when you zoom in further, you see the bubbles of people's lives, their reality, as well as their raw truth and selves. If you leave the circle, you lose your rooting and sense of self, but if you just peek past your bubble, you see the world and your reality. Then, like many times before, you are given a crossroads with three doors: fight, flight, or freeze. Allow yourself to be inspired by the positive and inspire people rather than attempting to change them. Open minds allow for understanding, which allows for compromise, even within yourself. Allow yourself to be understood by understanding yourself first. The mind is a powerful thing, and understanding its contexts is extraordinarily powerful; it’s the key to building your own reality and finding internal peace.

✶⠀

✶✶✶

What is your drive? Truly, deep within yourself, what is the core to your hopeful happiness? Some would instantly know, while others are lost at the question itself due to the heaviness of that reality. Don’t worry though; who ever is truly sure of their answer? Answers change just like paths adapt to experiences that tie to your life’s chapters as they develop with that curse of time. Some will have an idea in the current moment but won’t commit, longing for what could have been. While in contradiction, some will give the impression of commitment, which in turn makes them even more stuck; quicksand, a slow but rapid hindsight. For a while the group who doesn't know could be stunned with the question itself with or without the emotion that naturally comes with the reality of being in charge of your own happiness. 

Those who act directly on emotions—too scared to tell their truth, embarrassed, angry, etc.—will be stuck in the question. The main food for thought is what you do with it. Even now, many already understand what I am putting down, but not many have or will consider it a second thought. Always falling under this same circumstance: flight, fight, freeze, or fawn. So I will ask again, where do you fall, and where do you want to fly?

✶

✶ As to now, where I rewrote the song review a year later, I still, as ever, feel so understood in this musical masterpiece yet hold a new outlook in the understanding. Telling the story of my conscience's past still haunting my current future but still holding that more desperate sense of passion for hope because of its reflections.

✶⠀

“If the wind turns, if I hit a squall. Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me." The cold ground holds a comfort unlike any. I have stolen more kisses of concrete than any man could dream. Oh, but to appeal to clean standards, but I won’t; I can’t. My body is a temple of endurance, one that's undergone continuous war to shine and be as strongly fulfilled as the sun. The sun is a romance within me. To hold and fly above it all to join in sovereignty among every twinkle in the oceans of galaxies. A toxic love, she is what I wish to be. Every scar decorating the corners of the body I stole at birth. To be what I’m not is a craving that digs away at any ounce of peace, so I mark my battles in trophies for what I’ve overcome. This lovely body is littered, my knees stubbornly bound to the fate of a middle school boy. “I feel lighter than I have in so much time. I’ve crossed the borderline of weightless, one deep breath out from the sky.” To breathe, inhale and exhale, but feel as if you’re drowning. Furthermore, Moments in my life, breath feels real, light, peaceful, and life-creating. Yet my delicate lungs remain to crystallize with the salt water. I’ve breathed deeply, hopeful and hopeless. The ocean splashes in irony as I sit beside her now to breath. To step on your waves as you angrily crash beside me. I’m mad too; you’re polluted beyond a point I can’t walk to save. The gift of life is poisoned beyond the salt. The salt keeps us balanced. It weighs me down as it does the world, but in ways of limiting the gift of life. It’s cruel maybe, or it’s just the way it’s held its miracle alive. Limiting infinite possibility to not enable the possibility of falling. That’s where I choose to differ, to grant infinite possibility to demolish the power that falling has over life. I exhale. To find meaning in meaningless existence for myself is one thing; to convince you to do the same now that the lead to my future. “I've reached a rarer height now that I can confirm. All our weight is just a burden offered to us by the world.” Inhale. I move the burden around to parts of my life to hope and feel it less; it’s like a game of hot potato with you and your soul. I separated my consciousness and my soul some time ago, making passing time less solitary. In sweeter dreams we’d be dancing together, whispering your discovery of wisdom from the shit they clapped in your face. The exciting sensation as you see my fig tree unfold, and I feel her find that craved rooting. She who guards my soul shows me the possibilities of tomorrow while it still being today. It’s a blessing and a curse; she binds me with the excitement of the whole week combined to achieve it. Yet there’s me, the guardian of this life and body, and the one unfolding modern-day reality with itching aspirations. I fancy the ideals of recarntations and if there’s truth to being an older soul, but until I meet that reality one day far off I hope to understand my meaning for BI am here, right now, and writing this. Burden is the ink that I must write. The suffrage I’ve held onto craves unfolding in a cozy compost to bring life. To live is to die, and to die is to live once more, physically delectable, mentally challengeable. Cozy is what I wish it were, but life’s about thorns, not just the roses. As a child I was convinced I was dead, having been immune to being hopelessly stuck to the consequences of my mother's actions. I loved her to death in another life, and then in another, a new life began once more. She was the one who gave me that idea. Life’s about chapters, she’d say on one of those lonely nights. How each person is a book full of chapters of transitioning and growth in any new direction. Chapters like high school, mini chapters within that, are what made those memories you have now. With each funeral I held within myself, a new page turned and a chapter unfolded with the curse of time. With each bell toll did a new tulip plop on my grave. Until one day it became a hyacinth. The flowers were gorgeous together, but oh, they fought for grounding to flourish more than the other. For eighteen years I died a dozen times for that woman, leaving at least a couple dozens more flowers to fight for my compost. A wildflower garden now, for each chapter I gave my life to. Call it what you will, but I hadn’t risked my life purposely, but only to share its light to show others their own leaves you vulnerable. My mother is a black hole. To hold the love that she dreamily spoke of, a fairytale to us both but a religion for the world. That indefinite morning of adulthood, all that remained of my flower garden now was a singular sunflower. “And though I burn, how could I fall? When I am lifted by every word you say to me. If anything could fall at all, it's the world that falls away from me.” Growing up with eyes glued to the world, running marathons, and tired, I aimed for my observed standards to join that fairytale one day. Incubated, now that I’m free, I’m as lost as I've ever been. To be everything, so much so you steal breaths from tomorrow to be nothing. To live, to be, to be fulfilled with being everything and having nothing. “You have me floating like a feather on the sea. While you're as heavy as the world, you hold your hands beneath. Once I had wondered what was holding up the ground, but I can see that all along, love, it was you all the way down.” Dying was what presented me the vision of light, but not to any heaven, more so the heaven of my own possibility. Until you lose it all, do you realize what you had? Yea, the bad could have been worse, but the bad was better than nothing. Nothing is running in place while adrift in space with a small crack in your helmet. To run with no movement, surrounded by the galaxies of physical infinite possibilities doomed by your nothing to prevent your end to infinity. The feeling of a doomed path, but to survive is proof to keep moving. Everything leads to something for another reason; it’s not a path, though. It's following through on your decisions to form a path to another choice. It's a miracle to be alive; other than that, I actually made it to the USA, but the most is my hope to end surviving. Wings I have dreamt of beyond the moon, dreaming around my parents begging to kiss the sun peeking through my blinds. Meaning, meeting him is a cold case I toy with like Benoit Blanc. A curious muse, one I treasured so much to let go of. “I leave it now; I am sky-bound. If you need to, darling, lean your weight on me; we'll float away, but if we fall, I only pray you don't fall away from me.” Dreaming around my bubble, you visited to take me to your sky. You were my anchor to never ascend too far, as you hated the heights and they hated you back. Telling yourself you must train a pixie and ride to the sunset together was an idea. The dream is so magical it gives me wings, wired with possibility and topped with a crown of hope for the best. I saw myself as those fairytales my mother melancholically sang about. But you fell from me; I shouldn’t have asked you to come with me in the first place, but you insisted. “I do not have wings, love; I never will. Soaring over a world you are carrying. If these heights should bring about my fall. Let me be your own Icarian.” I could never help you; you weren’t helping me, killing us in the death of me to really live for the first time. 

✶

“If the wind turns, if I hit a squall

Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me.

I feel lighter than I have in so much time.

I've crossed the borderline of weightless.

One deep breath out from the sky.

I've reached a rarer height now that I can confirm.

All our weight is just a burden offered to us by the world.

And though I burn, how could I fall?

When I am lifted by every word you say to me.

If anything could fall at all, it's the world.

That falls away from me.

You have me floating like a feather on the sea.

While you're as heavy as the world

That you hold your hands beneath

Once I had wondered what was holding up the ground.

But I can see that all along, love, it was you all the way down.

Leave it now; I am sky-bound.

If you need to, darling, lean your weight on me.

We'll float away, but if we fall

I only pray, don't fall away from me.

I do not have wings, love; I never will.

Soaring over a world you are carrying

If these heights should bring my fall

Let me be your own Icarian carrion.

If the wind turns, if I hit a squall

Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me.

If I should fall on that day

I only pray, "Don't fall away from me." 

-I Carrion- (Hozier)-

✶

Poetry shapes the way I think and speak. Language, to me, is not decoration but a tool for truth. Whether through writing or conversation, I’m drawn to precision, nuance, and the depth in any moment where insight never settles and never announces itself. Small habits compile to make one mama habit that will dictate your life before you ever even think of the possibility, this being with the good and the bad in everything and your perception within it. As well as your perception of good and bad, this is key. The idea is to analyze any and all habits when they present themselves to you and listen. You cannot expect to be understood by anyone, much less love something fully, if you don't understand the why within yourself. This makes me feel _____. Why? Emotions are sticky and love to glue themselves around your thoughts to get you in stickier situations. Question things more, not to argue, but rather to explore other ideas or possibilities. Ignorance is bliss in hindsight, sure, but it's only good with no obstacles of confrontation that are threatening you to crash into. I see myself as the idea of the Titanic. Afloat in an oceanic mind uniquely mine, as yours is to you. Every hallway within the boat of my conscience leads to infinite doors of who I am. People, memories/experiences, dreams/nightmares, ideas, consequences, etc.—all of the past, future, and/or current time. An ocean full of icebergs, most of which formed due to icy intentions of life and, more so, the consequences of some that follow suit after them. It's the balance of life and Mother Nature's scale. I’m bound to hit something and go down at some point. It's a matter of when you bump into an iceberg; how do I prepare for repairs, or do I let them be? Sometimes in this idea you take a really gnarly hit and fall into icy waters, maybe with a lover on a door. The idea is of “who are you when the world is quiet,” but you are now asking that person to save your life. Life has ups and downs and even worse mudslides and hurricanes. That's just reality, meaningless as it always will seem. It’s what you do before, during, and after that is golden or threatening. This is how the systems within our lives can sit on you, or it did to me. To almost die is one thing, but to feel like death and be brought to a grave to climb out of as a result of failure, that's my idea. I’m fortunate for my experiences and the light they gave me. Most people I see are in a grave in a sense, where their personal burden lies comfortably in the dark, unseen. To be within this grave, Climbing out, seeing the sun, bathing in the warmth of a promising tomorrow, and then being shoved back in the hole again was my childhood. Over and over, toxic love but a growing passion. To taste something like the sun was a drug; surviving taught me the beauty and fear in chance but, importantly, the loss of doing nothing. I was an addict digging myself up and out of that pit for a chance of another fix. I died for eighteen years; the idea of meaning a laugh for this pattern then. To feel validated, I naturally drew to monochrome thinking, good and bad. When I climbed out, there was a test of doing it right; if you didn't back down, you'd go to try again. To die, fight for another taste of life ruled out by a standard. In the same way now at eighteen I felt death creeping in with fitting into societal normality. I’m a grown kid, still as trapped as ever. The death of childhood was the most sticky and lonesome of all. I got the sunshine I sought, but the caterpillar turned into a butterfly within a conservatory. Thinking, maybe missing the moments of digging, was better than flying in a bubble that taxed you with debt for taking flight. With digging, the more times you do it, the cravings naturally grow, but it is worth everything for the moment of relief when you finally reach it. Now to fly was a make-a-wish, controlled and granted by death again. Back then I tricked my brain into wanting to survive and bathe in light again from the lingering effects of that initial high seeping into my dreams. When life dips and you slide around a puddle for a grave, that irritating craving fixates. Such a desire finds itself manifesting as the idea of creating it for yourself. To mentally die was to see that sunlight for the first time, something of chance in the lasting deficiency of nothing. Yet for a dreamy drug I only nearly got buzzed on, it was enough. That breath of air was unlike anything, leaking out possibilities for more. Starving something makes it taste better, yes, but that's not living; it's surviving. To give energy for the chance of another hit beat, giving that energy by throwing myself around in a mosh pit. Funny, now it’s a wicked overdose. To die this time around was a new level of deficiency, since I had no high to crave, so I stayed dead, falling to a casketed mind. Walking dead will smell another, and too many I smelled traps in their minds; trapped in something only they see, know, or may physically be in. Digging within myself was new, trying to find perspective, maybe, to get a hit of something that makes me hungry for anything when I was already unpleasantly full. Everyone is uniquely the same, but the patterns within that paint rainbows all around us. Each person is a different shade, each shade a picture movie of that specific life's perspective. This is my brain itch, to look at the movies within people and learn new ways of meaning. That song in the back of your head, or a snarky voice. Mine just sang songs of the sun, feeling nothing for the dream I still ache for while holding it. I stood with a shovel, digging endlessly for my casket, which I could never seem to reach. Why? I made that song a curious melody of "why." When that tune finds you or you get a wee itch, I want you to scratch it raw, bloody, I dare say. Question it, overthink it, and ask why and why not, but do it compassionately and stay open. This energy of death feeds on doubts and fears; it finds insecurity to build it within and next, so make sure you only plant invasive ivy on the desert rock wall. For only something that is lively will you have healthy roots to decorate your mind. If you find yourself in this casket, mind as well. I’m sorry. Lonely in the ways of living life from the window, seeing all you could have but for some reason don't. Wishing for things others had for a given, but the idea of having it was discomforting. You may crave a shovel to dig out, have shovels but make no progress digging, or be holding it and can’t or don't want to move. It's the death or dying of something within you and your will to fight, flee, freeze, and/or fawn to survive. Find what you are, embrace that clarity of deficiency, and find or feel that itch. Within the why, you’ll find more whys until you can’t even remember why you were scratching sometimes. That’s a growing curiosity blooming into hope and blossoming into passionate energy to climb out. To hold a personal hope and passion for it is a token of immortality in a sense. To die is only so much to you, then. As you dig out and darkness threatens, this armor's foundations of memories, the experiences, or the now hope for more will keep your mind busy while you dig outwards once more. I learned the reason for my "why" behind the importance of living when you're alive. Memories and experiences are all you are when at definite death, making who you are when you’re alone. Not everyone will; some will never, and some will, with every passing day, mentally die. I don’t say seek out mental death for hope of light; I say find death in failure, find and feel the deficiency of it, and find a light of clarity in that acceptance. It's like breaking up with a partner and keeping going back and forth. As fun as it could be, to die is to keep living, but you must truly die to find the key to why to go through the real door of your life. To fully die, sit with yourself to accept that deficiency, for as it is that, you’ll find the key to open the casket when you're dug up. It’s like good and bad, less black and white but more like yellow, blue, and red. What didn’t work, and what did work to make orange? Blue is playing as uncertainty in this idea roleplay, mixing around with that perspective of colors to make more colors by not consuming them but questioning them. Laying out all parts to make infinite colors. Now stay with me; to be all uniquely the same, we must be unique. My blue is different from your blue. I grew up understanding my blue; you understand blue from another idea of home, making a new shade of blue. To share your painting of failure with another blue now opened the door to a new color palette of possibilities. Everyone's a painter, and a painter holds their palette close to color their mind, even if you’re not aware of it. Embrace your blue; coloring your painting of passions is to see and understand the colors of your reality. Then after you come to see and experience the reflected movies of others within their eyes, you’ll recognize and understand your own further.

✶⠀

Not everything is your idea of good; it could be my idea of horrible while leaving you in celebrations and vice versa, like the idea of my blue being your blue. The systems are only constructed for the cookie-cutter data analysis conclusion that is enough people aren't. My theory is we’re too uniquely the same to all be labeled to the perfect standard. Your blue is a different blue to me, but we're both blue only. I'm more greenish blue, and that door needs a blue-blue key, but we both are expected to go through? Why? Embrace that difference to find your blue. Not every path is yours specifically, but there are rainbows in effort and trying anyway, since within that path you may discover the one for you, only reachable if you take that initial leap. It will all lead you to where you need to be and go if you know yourself enough to trust yourself. A sense of passion helps guide you when you fail or when it simply flies out of your hand, since now you have a color palette to paint more choices with your needs in mind while addressing the reality of the situation. When situations get sticky and colors blend, you now also hold the power to see other palettes for perspective and deeper insights from that to prevent deaths too. Catch yourself, your passionate energy, and a buddy to prevent a mudslide in another casket. You need to lose the mentality that you already do or need to control every aspect of your life, so when you get reminded that you're not, you hold stability. Caskets form from the flipside of possibilities, the leaking fear of a contradicting reality; only with that passionate hope can you combat death's pulls to fall. Embrace the reality of it all to lose control of what you can’t control, and then turn emotionally won. To then rather recognize what you can and focus on a realistically hopeful opportunity to fly or brace for the teachings of eventually falling. Or to keep waiting and fighting the caskets to come while life’s chances move past. To hold what most envy but even more don't have comes with holding onto this passionate hope within and for yourself. Slowly becoming the doctor to your mind since the doctors of the mind only know one shade of blue. You can, and I actually encourage exploration of all kinds, but especially when it's slightly uncomfortable. It's instinct to find comfort and nest; the whole hivemind of technology is a perfect representation of that. You find a free second, you doom scroll or touch base with a friend, and you get lots of notifications. It's an easy escape from the moment, like taking a drug. You find a shortcut, and next thing you know, it's the main route. It's your shortcut, your decisions, and your ways in life until there's a new one, but make sure it's your one. Those moments rob you of itches, scratching your brain raw with no intent, unaware of the growing wound.

✶⠀

However, this is where my survival instinct philosophy expands. When I talk of conformability, I speak of the idea of fight, flight, freeze, and fawn within survival. A lot of people live in response to these or a mixture. Over-comfortability is also freezing. Freeze and fight, for or against something. Freeze due to fawning, people-pleasing, or another reason why you can’t or won’t grow in your life. I categorize people in these responses due to a deep reflection of myself and my personal patterns. Expanding in ways of observing other people's patterns in comparison and lack of compassion. These responses are vital but, in the long term, a blinding fog. Blurring your reality of living and surviving. You work yourself daily; why? You never leave your hometown your whole life. Why? You are physically fulfilled but mentally adrift. Why? Deeper, though, until you’re thinking less about why but more about the reality of why it is or is not enough for you and the void for hope, the question of enough. This is where my philosophies grow. I am building my idea of enough for me. In my book "Drowning Is Flight," I expand on my brain itches on perspectives within life by telling my perspective on living with these philosophies and viewpoints of life. As I grow and as I scratch, they will unfold and forever build on as well as introduce new ideas and itches to build new meaning. A meaning I hope is to unite and build more compassion for myself, others, and the environment. An idea for better, feeding off your misery so stubborn it's like an itch you can’t shake and have to scratch. Something to give an idea of possibilities for growth and true betterment within yourself.

✶⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠒⢶⣆⠀⠀⠀⢰⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⡛⡆⠀⠀⡜⣿⠀⠀⡔⡩⡲⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⢦⣄⠀⠀⢡⢣⡓⠤⡀⡇⡇⡇⠀⡆⠸⡅⠀⠀⣠⡴⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠻⡻⡢⢄⠑⡌⢣⣹⣁⣇⣸⡔⣡⢀⣇⠤⣺⠟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠴⢿⣲⣄⠀⠀⡱⡌⢢⡩⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠑⠿⡡⢊⠎⢀⡤⣔⣢⠄⡺⠀

⠀⠀⠻⣏⠉⠭⠬⣉⠞⢀⠤⢤⣤⡄⠀⣄⣠⢤⢄⡙⡟⠐⡫⢊⠖⠉⠉⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠈⢉⣉⡱⡞⠰⣥⣾⣿⣿⡏⠀⡿⣿⣻⣷⠬⠸⣭⣔⡊⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠤⠴⢶⣭⠥⠤⠤⡇⠀⠀⠀⠁⠠⡖⠀⠷⡄⠁⠀⠀ ⠀⠧⠀⣈⣩⠿⠶⠆⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⣨⢟⣛⢿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣛⣒⡋⠁⠀⠀⠀     ⣸⠻⡁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⣠⠤⠴⡣⣫⠄⡾⢣⡀⠀⠛⠙⢟⣛⣻⠋⠀⠀⡰⣍⠓⠀⣒⣫⢷⡄⠀⠀

⢸⠟⠛⠓⠒⠁⡘⠠⢊⡩⢲⠤⣦⣄⣉⣀⣠⢴⣯⡑⢌⢫⠉⠀⠈⠫⠷⠶⠂

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣴⠔⠁⢇⠘⠰⠹⡈⡇⣼⠘⡜⢄⠉⠒⢕⣷⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠋⠀⠀⠀⡼⡀⡆⠀⡇⣧⠃⠑⠺⡱⢣⠀⠀⠈⠳⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡎⣮⠞⠀⠀⢸⣿⠀⠀⠀⣧⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢷⠁⠀⠀⠀⠰⠇⠀⠀⠀⠙⠾⠶⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀