ab initio, ad infinitum

preacher.

PROCRASTINATION = NOT THAT SMART. yet here we are again, me procrastinating by posting another chapter. at least doing this is somewhat productive? yeah, flimsy excuse i know. i really don't have much to say, except that i hope y'all are doing well! (and is it me or this week kinda shitty but kinda great at the same time?? just me, okay.) do good, be well. <3

P R E A C H E R .

They call her a preacher. They call her a girl with words as her weapon and a soldier with ink stains marking her successes. Of her failures. Of every thought that she so brutally pushed for and let go.

I am that girl. I am a preacher of philosophies, a dealer of thoughts. I am the one who can only seem to make you understand how I think, what I feel, through spattered ink on pages, trying to resemble coherent thoughts. I am the one who rattles the prison bars around me, trying my very hardest to make someone hear me, or to knock over the cage so I can be free and find where the hell I am.

I am the one who seals their lips when I want to say something, because simply speaking will never explain to you how I feel. How sometimes, words of illicit beauty is blooming deep within my stomach, crawling up, filling my lungs with unbreathed wanttobeunderstoods, sending feather-light butterflies made of unadulterated light to spring up my throat to rest on my tongue. How sometimes, heat runs through my veins, thrumming with pent passion and aggression, how a volcano burns beneath my eyes, and sparks of energy are ready to crack on the roof of my mouth, the same storm clouds that fill my heart with heavy rain.

But I will say nothing more than a fraction of what I feel, because how can you understand me?

Instead, I take out my weapons late at night, when the moonlight is my companion and the whistles of brittle winds skittering through empty trees are my only accompaniment, and I find a way for you to understand me. I write. Wielding my weapons, I spill the ink of lost thought onto paper, tryingandtryingandtrying to make you understand that this is what I feel. I become a preacher, trying to teach you how I work, as if I were gears made of tears and laughter and life. Trying to make you understand that you are fucking enough. Trying to find myself.

I am a preacher. When I find courage or words or whatever the hell I was missing, and I try and explain to you, you can't hear me. Because I prattle on and on, and fucking preach because I'm a preacher, and how am I entitled to a thought when it doesn't match with yours? I don't blame you, because yeah, I am a preacher. I drone on about the things I feel and it's fucking hard to try and see what other's see. I don't need you to know why or how. I just need you to understand that I'm maybe not as damnably naïve as you think I am.

And maybe I am. Maybe I'm naïve and maybe I don't know that because I'm a preacher with no actions to my name other than the thousand words I produce in a day and maybe, yes, you are right. But how the hell am I going to be wrong before any of that is proved? How am I wrong even if it's proved? The difference between fact and opinion to me as a fucking preacher, is that I preach my opinion.

Opinion is something that every damned person on this fucking Earth has. And if a person doesn't, they have every fucking right to have one, because regardless of a book written by confederates, we humans aren't so great as to able to fucking mind-read yet, so what you think and how you feel will forever be yours.

And as I try to explain this to you, you cannot hear my words, so I write them down with my weapons in the hopes that maybe the curve of my letters is more tangible to your brain; that you can see some of your own feeling reflected in the swoops of ink that I wrote down. Maybe if I take a few more seconds to try and make you see how I see, you might be able to get a better resolution.

Standing in front of a large crowd with my ideologies might make a little less of a preacher, because maybe someone out there will listen, but the second I open my mouth, nothing but stuttering speech overlaying each other comes out. It's just sounds and thoughts and white noise and my feet are fucking cemented to the ground, my lungs made of lead. Heat runs just below my skin, trapped in the confines of nobody cares, and even though all you see of me is only skin deep, you still can't see the goddamn wildfires that burn on the entirety on my body. You can't tell that despite the easy smile and knowledge that I am a preacher, I can't even speak in front of more than a solo audience.

So I stay hidden in the blanket of the night and the starry sky with my bullets of words and enablers of ink pens and lead pencils, hoping that maybe someone out there gets why I write. Gets that because my traitorous mouth that can run only when lonely, I turn to writing my loud fucking opinions on every free surface- scratching those loud fucking opinions onto the backs of my palms- because that's the only way I can be heard for the words that I'm saying. Not the words that you decide to listen to or ignore.

You may call me a preacher because you think that I'm not doing anything about my apparently important opinions, and you're right. I may try and explain it to you, why I do what I do, I may try to write what I think so you can understand, and I may try and spread it as far as it can go, but by the end of the day, if you can't see what I'm doing and you call me a preacher?-

You are fucking right; I am a preacher.

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