I Mean I Said It; I Mean I Showed It.

I do not exist outside of my own mind. I am there everyday so it stands to reason that I do not exist outside of it because I never leave it. I watch the world, quietly, from this prison, and I listen. I listen within this haven’s walls to what you may or may not be saying.

There are always two narratives. Sometimes three, if you are lucky, but always at least two. What you are saying to yourself, and what you are saying to others. 

Understand that I have conversations with both narratives. Sometimes at the same time, and sometimes later on, when my mind has time to fully understand what you have said to me. Still, always the same, I am there. I hear it. I see it.

You are a contradiction. Not in terms, similes or metaphors. These narratives are not like, or as, something other than what they are; even if you mean them to be so. It doesn’t work that way. The author may mean something, or nothing, but the audience has another and so you must remember, always, who I am.

I am the girl in her head. The one who watches, who listens, who sees. I am quiet, and loud, and nothing and I read what you don’t want read. I read what you don’t even mean to present and I know. I know, my friend, what you mean even if the thought of that meaning has not crossed your mind…yet.

There is a lesson in there; somewhere.

Right now you are saying what you saying you don’t mean to say. Not meaning, in the least, but are saying isn’t there because I, like you, have two narratives as well and one of them is narrating your narrative. So I am placing there what wouldn’t be there if I was not there to place it.

Yet it is there. It is there and my fingerprints aren’t on it because you created it. Your narratives are conflicting and creating that third, elusive narrative, that I am trying to show you exists because you are failing to coincide what you say in words, and what you say in actions.

There is conflict my friend.

While I may be  in conflict myself because I have a war going on in my mind; one that I have fought, I may add, so many times that both sides are weary and reduced to simple name-calling instead of fist-a-cuffs. I say this, remind you of this, because I do not have time for your misdirection and blame lain on feet already covered with mud.

All narratives have power. Some more than others, depending upon the author. So, true to your form, your one narrative is saying more, doing more, hurting more…destroying more. And while the other narrative works tirelessly to assuage the stings, mend the cuts, and soothe the guilt stinging around the edges of your own denial, I am saying it is there.

It is there and I am there and I am hearing it. I am hearing, and beating, and lying down on the ground because standing is too much of a hassle these days. Lying down makes it easier to disappear. Ask any person who has been lowered into the ground.

I don’t have the care to assume.

I am telling.

Your narrative is broken my friend. Broken and lost, and while you may not like it, it is there. It is real. If you don’t like it, then it is simple. Change it. For you will never hold the right to cause harm, and when your narrative causes harm you are charged with changing it. You are charged with changing it, even if you believe yourself right, because being right doesn’t always mean being right. Being truthful doesn’t always mean you hold the truth.

And while some may find this an impossible task, it is only impossible to those who believe their narrative, even if they narrate that they don’t. Because one narrative is always louder. Always stronger. And while you may not hear it, the rest of us do because of who we are.

Narratives cause pain. But they never hurt. They never injure. They never break. At least, when used responsibly, understandingly…honestly.

I am the girl who does not exist outside of her own mind.  I watch the world, quietly, from this prison, and I listen. I listen within this haven’s walls to what you may or may not be saying. And I know. I know.

Knowing, nevertheless, only means something if those around you are willing to listen. When those around actually believe that you hear something other than your own narrative. That you hear other’s narratives. You hear.

Because, in the end, it belongs to you. You are the author. The speaker. The lie. The truth. The narrator.

So what do you do, when I stop listening?

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