How much of myselves do I give away to the prevailing wind? To what extent do I allow myselves to see the world through the lens of another, to whom I have granted more authority? What parts of myselves have I allowed to be labelled as fantasy or pathology, rebelling in small secret hearts, but largely believing, largely acquiescing? And all the while, never noticing my own complicity. Only when a new external authority comes along, with a voice I recognise, extending legitimacy and permission to be, do I recognise the extent of my own selves-betrayal.
No voice, not the old, nor the new, not the unfavourable nor the glowing, has that level of authority. Only I have granted it. I celebrate the diverse cacophony that upsets my uni-world view, lending me a window on sight itself. The chorus allows me the vision to step outside my own beating heart, to glimpse briefly the dizzying expanse of thought, so much vaster than I have imagined.
Even as I offer up my sincerest apology and sadness to the selves I have so long imprisoned within the wind, I also celebrate the internal fires that dance in the light of their own infinite truths. My voices are mine to explore and discover. They are also their own to evolve and declare as they choose.
No voice, not the old, nor the new, not the unfavourable nor the glowing, has that level of authority. Only I have granted it. I celebrate the diverse cacophony that upsets my uni-world view, lending me a window on sight itself. The chorus allows me the vision to step outside my own beating heart, to glimpse briefly the dizzying expanse of thought, so much vaster than I have imagined.
Even as I offer up my sincerest apology and sadness to the selves I have so long imprisoned within the wind, I also celebrate the internal fires that dance in the light of their own infinite truths. My voices are mine to explore and discover. They are also their own to evolve and declare as they choose.