Undergarments of my life

Undergarments of my life

Maintaining control

what an oxymoron.

How can any sensible person believe maintenance of a conceptual state that is purely ruled by interprestion be possible?


I'm an educated woman. I've seen a chunk of the world. I've had my share of experiences.

Yet I can't say I know very much. The more I learn, the more I realize I know very little.

Maybe this is in left field, but here goes:

Science::
The conscious mind shows what needs to be seen.
It's all a very slick user interface if you think about it
The subconscious stores away all the data of our experience.
We build our characters, motives, desires from the entirety
But we look back to give homage to experiences creating the end result
Or draw conclusions of how we got from A to B based on what's left in the memory banks.
Underneath... not-so-pretty files fold over and into one another

I think it's ok.
I am one of the fortunate ones that chooses to see beauty
I know all of that other stuff is there
I know it is equally integral in my totality
But I choose to pull from experience
Beauty
Love
Passion
Kindness

Art::
To look at as the portrait of my life
Everything else is there
Like the rabbit skin glue
Or the gesso
Or the foundational strokes
They give the texture, paint and linseed a strong home to rest
So that the beauty builds with every layer.
Every mix of pigment
Every cut with the palate knife.

What you see outside will be there for lifetimes to come in reverie
Underneath, the base lays strong and proud
Forgotten
Steady in it's love for the paint it preserves
That is beauty,
That is love.

I love all that has made me who I am

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