#36: Shape of my sorrow

The world I see is a nightmarish thing

When its perception of me is what I must be

Would you still love me if my wits were stolen?

Would you still care if my fears were emboldened?

If you took away my jokes and the laughter

If you peered into my soul, would I still even matter?

If you stripped me down to the essence of my being

Would you expose my heart, and the hurt I am feeding?

This right here is the shape of my sorrow

That amid life complexities I am empty and hollow

Picasso Portrait of Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler 1910

The first two lines of this poem always hit me hard. This idea that I have to live up to a certain set of norms and standards that define who I am is maddening. And if all the things that make up the good in me disappeared, and all the things that make up the bad in me were illuminated, where would that leave me? 

The truth is, the perception of me, is not me. The truth of who I am is not found in what I'm good at and what I'm bad at. It's not found in the right things I've done and the wrong things I've done. The truth of who I am transcends all finite perception.

So like in the cubist painting above, the truth of who I am may look nothing like the person perceived by the world or even myself.