Everynight I tell myself I am the Cosmos

I am the wind But that don't bring you back again When I was in high school, I wouldn't fail to write down a single thing like that. I would get one line stuck in my head one day at school and write it down in my private little notebook. It is really out of control how much I need to write. They say conversation rule the nation I can tell but I could never right my wrongs unless I write 'em down for real (P.S. You can git it.) But really, I think about 10% of me is living above water. Hot boiling waters and the rest is like pushing against the surface trying to get out. I've been reading this "The Road Less Traveled" book trying to take myself through my own psychotherapy because I've been realizing how even my therapist that I say is good is doing jack shit. Different perspectives are always helpful but it's only through my own interpretations and solutions that I evolve through things. ("Ain't no one going to turn me 'round" Whether it's others, negatively, or others, positively, yo, talk about a mantra <3 big star) I've been thinking a lot about just how fucking crazy my birth chart is and how ironic everything is, and when I really stop to think about the concept of astrology (which I'm always arguing, vaguely, how when you really think about it, of course it makes sense about energy and everything being connected and so forth) and how the fuck I am so extremely the puzzle my chart demonstrates, and how I was obviously that before I saw my chart, and how it really has enlightened me to the magnitudes of my potential and ALSO I'm sure has unconsciously acted as a self-fulfilling prophecy in a negative sense. But it is EVERYTHING! Which reminds me this poem by Mary Oliver I used to read to my cabins at camp. I'd use it to intro a devotion about imperfections and self-doubt (and the antidote to those, of which I know so well and am still trying to live in the spirit of) and when I'd start to read my voice would crack on the first stanza, or if it didn't, at least my throat would hurt. And it still does. Every year the lilies are so perfect I can hardly believe their lapping light crowding the black, mid-summer ponds. Nobody could count all of them— the muskrats swimming can reach out and touch only so many, they are that rife and wild. But what in this world is perfect? I bend closer and see how this one is clearly lopsided-- and that one wears an orange blight-- and this one is a glossy cheek half nibbled away-- and that one is a slumped purse full of its own unstoppable decay. Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled-- to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world. I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery. I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing-- that the light is everything--that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do. Wait why can't I get this to publish with the right format?