truth is insanity.

I don’t know how it all works, but I gotta tell you it’s the best puzzle ever; my mind is constantly moving around, discovering and discarding pieces all day, and night long. My thoughts and my environment seem to be completely intertwined, one flowing through and out of the other, designing beautiful potential pieces to put together.

I get lost on where my imagination starts and my reality begins. I hear voices which guide me, but aren’t really there, and aren’t really heard, but lead me nonetheless. I have numbers and colors assigned to those in my life, but I never assigned them. I can simply ponder on them for a second and their name or their meaning crosses my path. As if it wasn’t my thought to begin with. I wonder often, if I should write down a key; my grandmothers and mother and my sister all have their colors and/or numbers. My husband, children and even Jesus has a color.

My 4-year-old seems to speak to me, but the words and thoughts are not his, but my mothers', or my God’s, I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s the spiritual part of me, from another place and time guiding my human mind. My thoughts seem to be answered by my husband, children, the television, radio or anything in my communication path, so long as I carefully pay attention to my thoughts. As if the thoughts are given to me, as if something is ahead of my time, programming my ponderings, my environment, my everything. Or maybe I have been here before, maybe I have had this day, this moment, this life already come before me.

I will think something funny and my son, with perfect timing, will say, “That’s funny huh?” I was writing about my great-grandmother and her color red; her color has always been red and my son came home and immediately started dancing/singing while spelling “R E D, red, R E D spells red!” over and over. I will be worried about something and pondering a solution and my husband will say “It’s all gonna work out.” He'll be speaking to one of the kids about something else, but something in him responds to something in me. I will miss something about my mother and my sister will almost hear me and respond with something funny about the same topic.

It’s not that I’m any different than anyone else, I just think others don’t pay attention, or chose to talk about this reality. I swarm with spirits and fall into their realm when I write, they seem to be on this level between here and somewhere else. They seem to have a purpose with me, a purpose which I cannot fulfill, or even know. I can only keep quiet and learn as I go. I can only wake up each day to be the best parent, wife, sister, daughter and friend that I possibly can be. And of course I have to trust whatever

it is.