Brialee Turner

I got this journal
to write to you
when we were apart because
there were so many things
that I wanted to tell you.
And I was going to give the
stories to you on a special day.

But then you ended things
and I never wrote to you.
I wonder if I knew that we were
drifting apart
and so when I bought this notebook, I unconsciously
knew that you wouldn’t be around to read them.
But I needed to record these stories for myself.

I took this fear,
and yesterday when I was bursting with stories,
and then I couldn’t/didn’t/wouldn’t share them,
I saw the moments with the rough draft.

When I was exposed,
an infant flower desperately
hungering for the sun/water/CO2 of love, I
also wrote letters to tell stories,
I wanted the juicy tendrils of my heart
and the leaves of my mind to be attached to something,
my roots.

And when I was in darkness,
before the dream-land,
and in the anxiety of lies bound between green/navy blue
embossed books,
I sent my ideas to heaven,
and I was told that you were listening,
but I never felt that you truly
understood or knew me.

I wanted to believe that I had
been designed and created,
and that there was meaning and planning
for my identity and my life,
but I wonder where this meaning and worth comes from…

Because I assign meaning and worth to my stories,
but then I let these experiences provide and meaning and worth
to me?
Is life worth living/exploring/experiencing with no meaning?

What is meaning?
For me, a complex web.
But how can I say that this is the same for everyone?
To live an individual life is to possess individual meaning.

Where does it come from?
heavens/earth
ocean/air
minds/hearts
books/screens
magic/science
knowledge/doubt
emotions/logic
belief/certainty
experiences/rest
relationships/loneliness
connection/disconnection
black/white
both, all.
In the grey.