Arthur Schopenhauer postulated in Studies in Pessimism (if you'll forgive my impertinent paraphrasing) that what we generally view as bad or horrible occurrences are actually the 'positive' element to living, that without things like hunger, heartache and misery we would wither away in a sort of lackluster ennui and quickly perish from lack of nourishment, both physically and mentally, and that time is our one real commodity, though we are rarely capable of appreciating it.

"Every evening we are poorer by a day. It might, perhaps, make us mad to see how rapidly our short span of time ebbs away; if it were not that in the furthest depths of our being we are secretly conscious of our share in the exhaustible spring of eternity, so that we can always hope to find life in it again."

I feel a little pompous and ridiculous for entering this challenge. Others have said what I'm going to say much better than I can, as I've already admitted in the intro. I am naught but a puddle feigning depth, reflecting the sky and attempting to view itself as an ocean. There is no vast expanse, no eloquent soliloquy, no all-encompassing wonder or splendiferous awe in my mildly perilous waters. A sink-hole is the best I can manage. You will not drown in my romanticism but you might sprain your ankle.

...Now I'm worried that you may be getting your hopes up with the promise of colorful language in the title, but alack, my depth contains no Atlantis; no paradise of genius awaits. Give up now. Turn back. It is dark and dank and there are feasibly excessively ugly but relatively harmless eels lurking around the bedrock somewhere ready to tickle the toes of enterprising trespassers. But extraordinary? Me? ...Nay. Extraordinarily ordinary perhaps... Contemptibly quotidian? Intolerably mundane? (Oh I'm halfway decent at a passable self-derogation at least. That's a particularly well-honed talent of mine, I'm quite proud of it...)

So I will make no attempt in this piece to portray myself or my life as outlandishly wonderful, I will instead try to make the preposterous case that the bad things in my life, the grotesquely disturbing things, and even the ordinary dull things, are actually sources of joy after-all.

Firstly, to get the fluffy sentimentality out of the way, so that you know I'm not an entirely derelict headcase, and in order to be perfectly honest, the thing I love most about being me is that I am mother to four rambunctious little earthlings. Though I do comprehend how sanctimoniously disfavorable it sounds nowadays, (in the face of responsible precautionary methods to prevent such occurrences no less) to be proud of something so lowly and barbaric as producing four offspring, they are nonetheless the main source of my pride, joy and satisfaction in life.

But despite it all, despite the fact that I get to wake up to an adorable little beastling jumping up and down on me and saying

"mama! mama please wate up. you have to det up and make mine breakfast."

Despite having staggered out of delectably warm covers (spoiled housewife that I am) and prepared the demanded nourishment,

Despite having witnessed a heart-melting and mischievous smile from the offender and been privy to "thank woos" all round,

Despite the joyful grin plastering my youngest one's face as he hugs my leg "dood-mormim"(good morning) knowing that I'm happy to see him even though he quite obviously has fecal stench emanating from his overnight diaper,

Despite delight welling up in my chest (as I'm dealing with the aforementioned odorous debacle in the other room) upon hearing my eldest son read aloud voluntarily, after all the incrementally good but overwhelmingly flusterating hours I've spent teaching him how,

Despite all of them being graciously sound of body and mind,

And despite having accomplished more than my fair share of the instinctual imperative of sexually reproducing lifeforms...

I am still utterly insatiable.

Oh I've always been a bit too hungry for the various (predictable) intoxicants; Adventure. Happiness. Words. Philosophy. Food. Sex. I always want more than what's good for me. But I suppose that everyone has something. It's like what the fictional character Kenny Ackerman says in Attack On Titan S3:

"Everyone had to be drunk on somethin' to keep pushing on."

In an attempt to break one addiction I invariably move on to another. I've lost 50 lbs of excess fat these past 6 months, but have sprung up other obsessions, possibly worse ones. (My brain is much like this old ramshackle house we're currently trying to escape from, which used to be spider-scourged and after much ado to remove them, in the absence of eight-legged guard-dogs, developed a cockroach infestation last summer...) It is these little troubles and pangs which drive me often to the brink of insanity and disillusionment, but which I appreciate, in my best and least bitter state of mind, for keeping me not only alive but actively living, and granting me the ability to laugh at it all in hindsight.

I don't really know where I'm going with all this (that's the problem with such an alarmingly shallow creature as myself attempting depth perhaps; it gets all muddied. Difficult for us terrestrial lifeforms to do simple things like draw breath, or thoughts, from the abysmal bliss of endless turmoil and existential fear down there...) so I'll end with an admittance.

I feverishly and with earnest disdain for myself wrote a poem the other day. But the subsequent shame and distaste it garnered from my dominant lighter-hearted disposition claimed an ineptitude for describing such slitheringly sickening aspects of my personality and prevented me from keeping it published without explanation. It's disgustingly crude to be sure, but it is honest, at least fleetingly and recurringly honest, to my innermost sanctum. It is also atrociously personal in such a way which causes me to be ashamed and proud of it simultaneously. I derive joy in it's misery. Satisfaction from it's dissatisfaction. Well you can see for yourself. I'll let you see it... Only, if you could find some way to laugh at it (even the smallest of titters would go a long way) I'd appreciate your camaraderie in the endeavor of not taking myself too seriously. Here goes:

My Greatest Vice

All.

I want it all.

And more.

I wallow,

Rumbling at the core

With conscience-killing, overweening, brazen craving,

Ever keening.

I tasted it;

In mind's sweet glint

I've sweated like a craven bint.

A fatted cat,

And still I yearn.

With dire longing; whims that burn.

Never should I be fulfilled.

Fickle say, or weakest willed...

To want more than what good I've got;

To fall,

So worthlessly besot...

Yet how can passion be called weak?

My heart clings fast;

My blood un-meek.

I want...

From wetted cunt to brain,

I want this want to be insane...

But on it lives if mad it be.

It blinds,

And forces me to see.

so many emotions inside.

so many feelings rise like the tide.

feelings of hurt, despair, and confusion--

but then comes a very welcome intrusion...

an unction to look at the littlest things

the good little blessings that each day God brings.

the good little reasons I enjoy being me.

there's no other person I rather would be.

I like the way I wear my dark hair in wild and natural waves.

I like the way the sun shines through casting a golden brown shade.

I like my smile, I like my eyes- a deep hazelnut gaze.

I like the way that ever in my head music never ceases to play.

I like my caramel skin, 'tis certainly not blemish-free

I like me with no makeup, makeup is not what I need

I like my moles and spots, and marks, and things, you see.

they all are just a part of me being me.

I like my voice and my imaginative brain

I like my heart that feels joy and pain

I love the spirit that He blessed me with

I love each and every special gift.

I like my long legs and my lanky physique

I like all the things that make me unique

I love all different people all over and through

And, internet stranger, yes. I love you too.

i love the things i hate

that my hair is curly

my skin is dark

my fragile fingers

my brown-green eyes

the way i can think forever

and find the deeper meanings

how i can feel so unforgivingly

i love the things i hate

I fall in love with strangers very easily. After passing a stranger, I start thinking about what their life must be like, I'm so curious about their struggles and dreams.

One stranger I am yet to fall in love with is myself.

I am yet to be curious about my struggles and dreams,

I am yet to recognize how I try my best to show my love to those around me,

I am yet to appreciate how I speak up for the shy and lonely that I come across

I am yet to trust myself in social environments where I shine like the sun at dusk.

I am yet to be thankful for my reserved eyes that look onto the future with hope.

I am yet to appreciate how I am always asking more questions.

I am yet to fall in love with myself.

I love that I am me.

To love being me is special, I think.

When I am me, I am not hiding.

Sometimes I even try to hide behind a mask, but I forget.

For a moment I get worried.

"Why did I say that? Do they hate me? Did that sound weird? Why?"

But then I think on my thoughts, and I realize...

I don't care.

It is harder and harder to see beauty in humanity with my growing knowledge of history, of dictators, of kings. But, the more I learn about the natural world the opposite is true; it becomes even more exquisite.

This is no Pollyanna hot take.

I love it even with the tapeworms, mosquitoes and snarling cougars, the frigid starving winters and the parching desert heat.

Beauty; embodied within even the smallest organisms, spun throughout the intricate web of processes that causes life's' continuation, beauty is as fundamental to life as DNA. All it takes is an openness and time to see, to hear, to feel, to smell, to taste, and I am hypnotized, transcended.

Leaves moving like waves in the wind, or the mind altering fragrance of balsam poplar, pine pitch, or rose. The feel of moss underfoot, or against my cheek as I lie on the forest floor, eyeing mushroom gills and the dusting of spores in the leaf litter. Chanterelle forages and sweet periwinkle nectar, the invigorating chrisp of wintergreen berries. Witnessing pelican hunts, the bass notes of barred owl calls, or a bee snoozing inside a chickweed flower. We all know that these are beautiful things, but do we see them as divine? Sentient? Deserving? To be a true naturalist, to be in love with everything the earth holds is to also embrace the vile. The violence. I embrace the shadow side, because I see it is inseparable from the rest.

Mosquitoes, ticks, piranhas, grizzly bears, cougars; parasites and predators each play a supporting role in a functional ecosystem. It is not just the specific tone of a particular species that I love but the whole symphony of interrelating species, crucial for appreciating this gorgeous song.

This beauty offers transcendence; watch the slow movement of a snail, let her crawl across your page, onto your finger, feel her life, her curiosity. Say hello.

This is what makes me different, maybe even extraordinary; certainly, this appreciation of beauty is what gives my life juice. Perhaps through my art, for whatever it is worth, I will be able to illuminate for someone the hidden threads of beauty woven even in the shadows of life.

I am

my skin to my skin

the motion soothes

the repetition is euphoric

a moment of silence

heaven for my thoughts

I am

the way purple and orange light bounce off of each other

in solitude

the colors sing to me

a spectrum

when I am comfortable

I am myself

I am creative and focused

and even if only for a while

my divergence is holy to me

dear reader,

if one day I call myself a writer,

or even if after one day

comes another

and I never do,

this is the beginning of filling pages without worrying of their significance to you.

as a child,

I chopped each idea into a

bite-sized

appetizer.

wedding cakes now teacakes arranged on a platter,

but I never left full enough from the latter.

adolescence stuck my notebooks in the back of the closet.

doomed forever oblivious of

honestly expressing myself.

she laughed

a piercing shrill

whenever I thought of returning them to their shelf.

blind-fold on, freefall,

semester after semester,

destined for world-renowned discoveries!

the greatest unsolved mystery left buried in mind–

self-inflicted turmoil

over an identity I could never really find.

sometimes my existence still eludes me in

blinding daylight,

a lost relative I’ve decided to shun,

but my writing impulse rides in with the setting sun.

seducing me with the scarce satisfaction of

crafting a single line I don’t hate.

coaxing me with the promise of an empty page–

it turns out moonlight is all it takes to dissolve a cage.

newfound freedom is a mother to change.

peering into empty space with a blank stare,

half the time I swear there’s poetic genius hidden there.

late hours, in-between days,

piecing together the parts of myself I was

taught to forgo.

Insecurities crumble to mere punctuation.

I rebuilt what was lost a long time ago.

regardless,

if I made it

you’re out there reading this,

or if I didn’t you’re not,

but to me and my poem

the difference is meaningless.

Yours Truly,

A Circadian Writer

It's what guides my thoughts.

What fuels my love.

What gives my words hope.

What turns my creative wheels.

What actuates my dreams.

What grinds my opponents down.

What boosts my friends up.

What brings my energy through.

The spark of life. The drops of energy of my soul; spilling out of my life like an endless river.

We call that spark imagination.

And it makes me who I am.

I am a Warrior Goddess on the rise. A leader with natural wit. Caring and carefree, A torrential down pour of awesome. I can be helpful and loving but that doesn't always come so easy. Maybe the planets and stars aligning makes me who I am or the circumstances in which I was born. Maybe grand scheme or something that just happened. Either way I am here today.