I want to speak. I do speak, a lot, but more so out of turn. Perhaps I over speak. With a wine in one hand I could compete in a speaking marathon. But am I really saying anything. What are these words that spill out of my mouth and what form do these words take on before they enter another person’s attention? Is it even what I said anymore, or are the words now their perception of me? Therefore in turn am I actually judging myself with my thoughtless yammer? I’m starting to wish I thought about all this before I took on the ability to turn thoughts into words. Or maybe its patience I require, the patience to stop and think before I speak rather than grab the audience’s attention with a laughable anecdote?
I yearn to speak before I think. And yes, I thought about that before I said it. I desire the opportunity to sit amongst strangers and have us speak crazily with each other until we have no choice but to reconsider our words. I want their words to ignite a fury of questions within me. I want to share stories over wine and food and get so deep that the only true answers we find are actually more questions. How intriguing.
I want to plant my toes in the ground and grow roots. I imagine my toes lengthening into long green stories embedding themselves in the dirt demanding to intertwine with others. I want my shoulders to burn in the sun, storing the heat and letting it sink into my stomach where it could fuel my radiant growth. I want my head to tilt back, my eye lashes calling the rain to shower me with hope. I want to feel a connection to this place.
I find wine exceptionally inspirational. It opens the parts of my mind that the drugs try to close. It is absolutely wretched having to close off something so real to cope with everyday life. Wine however, seeps into the awareness just enough to feel invigorated and motivated again. Why can’t they give me wine pills instead of crazy pills?