Myself

It seems as though the only thing this world revolves around is other people. My mind is disturbed day in and day out by the notions of others and the ideas of those whom I care too highly of. My heartbeat is confused for she beats to a multitude of various rhythms. 

In the recess of my  conjuring soul lies something I dearly long for. I long to find myself.

Oh, how wonderful it seems to come face to face with my true identity. Beyond the tainted fantasies of other hearts, beyond the churning of multiple realities, there has to be a space which only my desires can intrude. Where my dreams are all their own, and my ambitions breathe deeply.  

Is there any way to reveal my own passions void of those who surround me? There must be something one can do to unearth the organic nature of oneself. If I were nothing but an idea, without even the slightest hint of outside inspiration, what would I envision? 

If I could be painted as a color, what spectrum would I exist out of? If my soul was merely words, what story would it tell? Something beautiful I suppose. Or at least I can only hope that if one were to read through the pages of my inquisitive countenance they might discover something of beauty. Something worthy to read at least. 

I wish I could simply strip away all else. I want to dig past things which have influenced me, deeper than even the words of this world could even hope to describe. I know, without the slightest doubt, that so much more lies beneath this placid chest of mine. 

As human souls, we feed off one another. We grasp onto the journey of another’s mind, and ride along for a brief duration until we notice something more enticing. How interesting it is, how rare it seems that all we are made of consists of both internal as well as external materials. We are all fabricated from the inside out, but how wild it is to believe that we are constructed from the outside in as well. It is as though we stand as a building, being painted within and mortared on our exterior. 

Oh, how strange the melodies we are, whose composers are abounding. But perhaps, just maybe, the raw material of my very own soul was never lacking the ideas of another. If I was all my own how would I have come to be?  If there was a beginning of myself, then it seems impossible to be untainted for there was something who created me. Someone who created all that I am. 

For in the beginning of my existence there was a being who knew everything I was, am and will become. His creativity branded it’s iron signature upon my genesis. Even before the moment that I came to be, He had formed something beautiful within the depths of time itself. My first heartbeat; the origin of the first note with which my melody should ring out into the corners of reality. 

Preceding the birth of my own body and soul, an overflowing river of love penetrated every crevice of my life. Before my mind could convey it’s first perception, there He was, the painter, composer, the potter and author. For it is He who inspires the beauty and life swelling forth from inside me. From the center of my chest, it is here that He resides. Every creative idea stems from all He is - as though I were the smallest of branches among the indomitable fortress of an ancient Oak. 

By mind buds from within the nutrients of His roots, and my petals reach out towards the beauty of who He is. 

As I swim deeper, dive further inside of myself, it is not I whom I face, yet it is something much more. For at the center of myself I find the One who created me. 

And this... is more fascinating than any idea ever conceived.