If I had to classify myself as one thing when I am wandering around in the stinky neighborhood that is my own discursive mind, I would classify myself as a clamorer. A clamorer like how soldiers clamor for darkness in the dead of night so that they might keep themselves safe until the light comes. A clamorer of the sort that wakes up at the dreaded Four A.M. hour and lays awake in the dark hoping and waiting for daylight.
Basically I am a clamorer of light. I clamor for light—so that I can see what my confused heart and mind is conspiring about, brewing up. GIVE ME LIGHT, I say. GIVE ME A SOFT GLOW TO SEE MY CONFUSED AND PANICKY SOUL BY, I plead.
There is such a moat of pitch black darkness that surrounds the light I crave.
And I always find it—-the light. I always find a candle or a far off view or a sunset or an iridescent shadow thrown twenty feet off a majestic tree. And when this happens. When I pluck myself out from the self-obsessed darkness that creates a wallowing person I can always give credit to some kind of glowy, far-reaching light to get me back on track and remind me that the only way to make it forward on the road ahead of me is to find the type of light that reflects my gentle strength and my strong goodness.
Sometimes It Seems So Convoluted I Just Need To Only Eat Sees Candy,
Donna the Complex and Difficult Living Person