Coming to My Senses

Somewhere around my 14th year, I forgot I had five senses.  Trusting only my ears, I lived life believing what I heard.  Words became more than simple units of language, but instead, they created the way I saw the world.  My dreams were made of thousands of small yet powerful words, dancing together…choreographing the mural that would become my life.  I suppose this makes some sort of cosmic sense, considering the second definition of word is unit of meaning.

Coming to my sensesI’m starting to know better. Because the unit of meaning, the promise behind the words, if you will, lies not in the word itself, but in the soul of the one using it.  It lies in the action…what you can see, what you ultimately get.

Yes my ears are tricksters, paying more homage to your soul than to my own.

My other senses are much more loyal, even if I was not loyal to them.  I’ve recently discovered my nose.  Taking deep breaths…cleansing smooth, quiet breaths…sends chills down my arms.  A vessel for the oxygen this body needs, my nose is my greatest life line.

In truth, I’ve always had a sense of my eyes, except that I misunderstood them.  My eyes feel like the sea, with specs of hazel no one has ever noticed.  They busily search constantly for truth. They realize the subtlety in a nervous action, the way a smile hesitates on nerves.  But they cry at sappy movies and remain dry when my heart breaks.  They are constantly trying to find answers, but acting alone in doing so.

I’m embarrassed to say, I forgot I had hands and a tongue a very long time ago.  I got little enjoyment out of the textures of my life. The nuances fooled me. I searched for silk, but felt sand.  Now I try to catch water in my hands and am mesmerized when I get to watch it leak.  I can feel water in places as dry as the desert.  I am thirsty for things I cannot drink.

The madness, I now understand, exists in a place where your senses contradict each other.  When what you hear is not what you see.  When the salty taste of his skin reeks of her floral scent.  I imagine I had a choice, go mad or turn them off.

I turned my senses off and rested on my ears.  I believed the words I’m sorry more than anything else I’ve come to know.

Lying dormant for so long, I yearn for a life where I taste and feel my way along the path. Perhaps my coming to my senses journey, means walking through life backwards for a while, allowing my hands to smoothly sweep away my footprints, because I no longer think getting lost is a waste of time.

And when I’m ready to stop walking backwards…I’ll feel myself forwards.  I’ll become the incomprehensible silence that lies at the moment your senses no longer collide. My coming to my senses journey When the smell of fire is the same as your lovers touch, eyes that don’t turn away, a kiss on the nose, and the words I love you.

Until then, I’ll ride the textures of my experiences.

And I will not name them.

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