Bridge/ Mortality
I know I've written this before, but it never ceases to amaze me. Autzen bridge is a place of power.

Is it the expanse of air? The openness? The height? The sound of rushing water?

It may be one or all of these things that make the bridge somewhere special, but the feeling it gives is utterly supernatural.

I stand on the bridge alone and I think. I stand on the bridge with company and I talk. I open like a flower. All of the words that I censor in my waking life come to the surface, almost completely unhindered. Mostly, the bridge brings out ideas and emotions from the preconscious- hopes, fears.... hidden things. They all bubble out in an exuberant rush of conversation no matter the person I'm talking to. On the bridge I let go. Sometimes, I feel as if the bridge speaks through me. Instead of saying things from my own mind, I feel like I am being used as a conduit. I begin to say things that I don't think before I say them; that I wasn't aware were part of me- that I feel are a part of something else.... words that have been formed by a force outside of myself... words of power....

(I wrote you a letter)

When I speak these words, I feel like a sybil. The sybil/oracle/priestess figure has always been my archetype. I not a fire entity... there is the energy of the warrior in me, but not the will to do the work. I am water and air, maleable, transluscent, lucid, liquid. I sometimes feel as if I am a conduit. As if my writing, my words, my dreams, were vehicles through which another voice can speak. I am not like my sister, however. I am not frail, transparent, pastel... I cannot see the border to the land of ghosts. I am grounded in earth and sea, an empathic elemental. I'm not getting a big head here, this is just my archetype... it takes a lot for it to manifest and few people (often only those with the most powerful Gift) can see the archetype while my masks are up. For some reason, the bridge drops these masks. There is Pallas, Seneca, Geness. The first in the triad.

I had a long, strange childhood.

Sometimes these things leave me. But I cling so desperately to them that I embrace any place that can bring them back. I love the bridge. I love being there with people. Even if I can't speak to them in my daily life, I can speak to them there. We can still discover ourselves through each other. It means a lot.

Often, I am surprised by the things I hear myself say. I guard my words well and when they come out unhindered or unforeseen, I know there is something unusual about them. I don't know if I've ever in my life spoken a full or even partial prophecy but I've said some damn weird truths that were beyond me even milliseconds before the thought left my mouth.

Last night, when I said it wasn't the people, it was the ideas that make us... I might have been wrong. Maybe it is the people that are real. Maybe we only have the ideas because of them. I think I'd like to believe it's our ideas/ideals that move the world... I like to embrace this abstract. But what if it really is the people? What if it is all concrete? If it is the PEOPLE that matter, does any of what I say even make a difference? Should you even care?

What is wrong with us?

What's wrong with people?

Nothing is wrong with us. We are all perfect imperfections.

Sometimes I feel guilty for the things that come out of my mouth when I can't stop them. It's like "the true confessions of a seriously disgruntled college girl." I feel like a head case. I think sometimes I must look like all I do bitch and moan about what more I want. I AM HAPPY...

I am.

But I still question that. I always will... it's what I am, it's what I do. It's why I have to sometimes take moments and twist them inside-out, tag them, and say "this is special... this is real... this is NOW." It's why I make stupid little things, like getting my bellybutton pierced, into momentous events. So... so WHAT? So what do I know about anything? Why does this matter and what the hell am I saying anyway? Why am I writing all this bullshit that none of you (save maybe two...) will even attempt to understand? First, because I can. This is my soapbox, bitches. This IS my diary. I don't keep another one. This is IT. Only with names removed. Second, This is am emotion I'm trying to capture. It doesn't belong to words... but I am trying to make it into them. As always I will fail, mostly. Third, it matters because there IS power. I can feel it... and I have to prove it to myself, because that there is something greater than me and I feel that, sometimes, it might be mildly interested, THAT is important.

I am just a small girl, standing on a bridge, holding a conversation betwen realms, looking out at a river that flows to the ocean... and all I can think is this:

I'm just so glad that you can finally look at me.