After all that I have read why do I still wonder and crave expression? My only language possessed is not very beautiful. Words sparkle and twist in the raw wind for some who are in pain. But my words are left compromised and smattered with unclear thoughts and ambitions. If only there were some other art that I could find to name it. When I am carried off by the stripping power of music, I am buried beneath too many layers. I am destroyed and frustrated at not having any language. I remember being born with some limb that has been amputated. At least, it must have been at some point when I was younger, without it I can’t move in the directions that I am naturally inclined. All my thrusting motions are blotted out contortions and there’s nothing that I can read or see without feeling this sad pain in an unnamed part of me.
In the world there are types of understanding. So many that it is hard to discern a beginning to serve as a starting place. From the time that I was a little girl I used to bother my mother and my other caretakers with questions about the world. When no one knew the answer or a method of entrapping me with a puzzling explanation, people would say “You are a question machine!” Now that I am older, maybe less or more refined in my questions, but in no way deviating from the source of their inspiration, I do not know what to search for to answer which questions. Even the order of the questions have become disarranged. In the worst of times I’ve looked for a frosted golden window cluttered with familiar quaintness. When I have stared at it for too long, my fingers are no warmer than they were when I was child left alone in the dark wondering haplessly at the moon. In all cases and after all of my desires I remain outdoors. But there has never been a place of refuge for me.
I remember an old abandoned apple orchard near the farmhouse where my mother and I lived. The fullness of the fallen apples in the overgrown grass comforted me because I knew that I would not be found. In everything, though, there was always my sadness in the memory of the house beyond the empty barn that scared me. Everywhere there are ghosts for a mind that does not know itself or the world around it. And daily sorrows sink to tragic depths in imaginations that run deeper than those around them. On those slimy, mossy branches, where I tried to climb, is where I discovered that there was fear.
Fear is not a freeing formula. My mind grew dim with emotional strains and hollowness that children who grow up before their time feel as the result of too much time alone without enough stimulation. Nothing terrified me more than the moments during which I discovered I saw things that my mother did not and that I could not conform to the beliefs that many in our life and community adhered to with vehemence. Within me there were splinter forces growing through me and I was left with them, without words enough to exorcise them. Inquiry did not grow methodically from repetition or encouraged inspiration. I cannot suggest that these are fair demands to make on questions. I only want to show that questions, from the time I was ten years old, grew in me like a half-formed cavity. Where on one frontier there was definite shape and order, in the middle of it there was lack.
From this lack I have since tried to tear myself away. Since now there are many avenues for me to explore new questions and even rewrite a patchwork stitching over my vacant organs, I have lived with them so long that it is hard to imagine that every man has tolerated them from out of darkness came, before the word, the deed.