poetry - something about houses
#notes #storytime #lemon8challenge #poetry #storytelling #neurodivergent #autistic #queer #brat
Brains are like the container by the door that holds all your mail. The other day, I decided to go through the one at my parent's home. Boundless Coupons, credit card offers, and letters from the phone bill company. I was two months behind when they finally took away my service. I wish I could simply shred or recycle my thoughts. If only they could turn into something new more quickly, into something tangible.
I have been considering making my own paper from the cardboard in the bin, my family doesn't recycle much. I do wonder if attempting to reconstruct something usable from the scraps they have thrown away is a good choice.
Consider now that your home has no windows. Only stacks and stacks of papers labeled with 'bed', 'chair', 'a promise'. Would you still consider that place a home? I feel like I have no choice other than to try to organize these papers in a way that resembles comfort. Molding these concepts into categories to make couches or something soft to rest on, but only for a moment, until I get a paper cut.
Your home is also made of paper, you debate adding windows. It is large and winding, turned to plaster from the tears and blood of the past, becoming slowly indestructible. It is hard to get around in, but the filing is beautiful once you understand the system... there are many different systems.
Some people's houses are not made from paper or tears or blood. That does not mean anything other than we have different houses.
Other's homes seem to be far, far away and consist of only several things. Possibly and honestly likely they have hidden basements full of things that they only let a few people see. While mine sits upon the hill and asks, begs for people to explore, to chart the stars that sometimes appear on the ceilings at night.
If I am invited into someone else's house I will pretend not to see the trap door of course unless they decide to open it for me, beckon me inside. I will then walk down the sturdy stairs and light a candle to see better. I am sure that I will not be surprised by what is laid under those floorboards. I will act as though I am. "Thank you for letting me in" I will say. As though I didn't realize, halfway through this tour, that I already had a map of the place. I travel through my own home briefly; it is just down the hallway, to the right, second drawer from the bottom, 2 from the left, category 'things I know but do not understand'.
When we go back up the stairs, I sit on one of their chairs and get a paper cut.
Sometimes, life feels like a relentless flood of experiences, and my brain, much like that container by the door, just keeps collecting it all. There are days I feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of 'mail' – the boundless coupons of joy, the credit card offers of anxiety, and the overdue bills of past hurts. It truly embodies the 'i suffered i learned i changed' journey, where every challenge becomes a lesson, and every scar a story. For me, poetry isn't just about crafting pretty words; it's a vital system for sorting through the chaos. It's how I attempt to shred or recycle my thoughts, hoping they can transform into something new and tangible. The idea of making my own paper from scraps, of reconstructing something usable from what's been discarded, resonates deeply. It’s a way to reclaim my narrative, to build my own unique 'house' from the raw materials of my life. The poem's imagery of homes without windows, made of stacked papers labeled 'bed,' 'chair,' 'a promise,' speaks volumes about the internal landscape. As someone neurodivergent, my internal 'architecture' often feels different. My 'house' might have winding corridors and filing systems that others don't immediately grasp, but they are beautiful once understood. It’s a powerful reminder that people's houses are not all made from the same 'paper of tears or blood.' We all have different houses, different ways of experiencing the world, and there's strength in acknowledging that. This act of externalizing my internal world, of giving a tangible view to these abstract feelings, helps me gain clarity. Like trying to understand 'things I know but do not understand,' putting them into verses allows me to map out the place within me. It’s like discovering the hidden basements of my mind, full of things I only let a few people see, but which are integral to who I am. Sharing these poems, these glimpses into my 'home,' feels like inviting others to explore the stars that sometimes appear on my ceilings at night. Even with the beauty of this internal exploration, there's always the risk of a 'paper cut' – the sting of vulnerability when sharing such personal insights. But it's through this brave sharing, this invitation into my unique 'house,' that I hope to connect with others who might also be navigating their own complex internal systems. It's a journey of self-acceptance and understanding, transforming suffering into learning, and ultimately, into change.
bumpin that