The Tide Of All Existence
Blaming Virginia Woolf for this outburst… describing the construction of the self as: ‘like a butterfly’s wing…clamped together with bolts of iron.’ wrote this first as a stream of consciousness exercise no punctuation just flow one word into the next it was a strong old tide indeed This morning, as my world is poised at the start of another summer storm, I broached a light rewriting, just to make it readable, and although it’s all about me (diva!) I dare to hope that the feeling of transformation in a life is familiar to all. The urge to write comes late last night. It will not cease to pester: it fills my head with irritable fidgety creatures. I can’t settle and neither can they. I don’t know what they are, what strange party I am hosting here. But there’s nothing here that is not part of my own self, even though they seem uninvited, they must be part of my mosaic, my pinterest board of butterfly wings, held with iron bolts, they cannot leave. I make myself as a collage