with oneself. knowing the self. the one-self. excavating the layers of oneness of aloneness. seeing myself. parts of me. everything out there pointing to me. the outer denoting the inner. and what is there? the locked up, denied, pushed away, grey masked interior, covering the effervescent artistry of the self. because she is scared, because she has stories she holds onto so tightly, so rightly yet so untrue. the truth is, i love it here. in this cocoon. in this womb. this sanctuary of me. where i can wrap up. be inward. go inside. curl inwards. spiral to the center and keep going. there are so many stories to tell. of the traveling. of the adventure in solitude. i have walked all over the world, across islands, through cities and countries. across bridges, oceans, rivers and canals. breathing in the essence of each. they are in my cells, they are in my hair and my eyes and the stories are true. rich with color and smell and sound. i wear their patterns and carry their light. the sea, the cathedrals, the lovers, the paintings. they are in me. in my eyes as i look at you. in my walk as i pass by. in my excitement when you want to know more. i dance them through me, they are in my arms and my feet. in my soul as an offering and my heart longs to share it with you. so take the richness, the essence, the colors of me. hold out your heart and let me pour into you.
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