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[evasheart-blog]

Love letter.

I have never been like anyone else in my family.

There is love there but I have never fit in. It is like we come from different countries, speak different languages.

I sometimes wonder how I came from these people. If I came from these people. I don't even look like anyone in my family. When we are together, they are warm and lovely and friendly with me, but it is like a networking event where the people happen to also be nice to you. You can tell. I am not of them, and they are not of me.

I know there is a reason--a reason I was beamed down onto this planet the way I am, a reason I stick out the way I do within this biosystem I came from.

I believe there are truths speaking themselves through me, things that predate me or anyone alive in my family, will outlive us, continue to exist regardless of us and who we may be and whether or not we speak them.

These are the smooth stones at the bottom of the river. Through every generation they remain, solid and unchanging, the waters passing over them. Waiting.

I know the way my family is is not the sort of thing that begins and ends in one generation. These things run deep, generations deep. I am the one my ancestors have chosen to speak through. The way I am, the way I speak, the way I write write: all of it brings these stones to the surface. It causes ripples. Waves that extend out further and further past me, touching what came before me as well as what will come after.

These are changes that bring life, will breathe life into my entire family line. But a ripple is also a disturbance in the water. And change is never comfortable.

********************************************

Abuse splinters families.

The earthquakes we live through but never talk about, cannot look at because we do not want to remember them, because the whole point of living through them is to never live them again, so we pretend like they didn't happen but you cannot uncrack this earth we stand on together, you can act like this house we live in is like new but the door still creaks from being ripped off its hinges, the winds still blow in through the broken windows, the rain still leaks through the roof we patched over.

You can pretend like this house is new but that that won't make it so.

You can pretend but I cannot. Have never been able to.

Those are the fault lines between us. The borders that scatter us into different countries, fling two people who grew up in the same home onto different planets. Remap our tongues with different languages.

There are so many things we cannot say to each other. Are unable to speak to each other.

I lived through the earthquake with you. I saw it toss you around our house, slam you against walls. I saw you and you saw me. Embarrassed and humiliated and hurt and helpless, and confused. Too young to have a language for any of it. Too bewildered to know how to assimilate it.

I saw your helplessness. And you saw mine.

I do not blame you for wanting to blot that house out. I do not blame you for the erasure that is the silence. I do not blame you for pretending this house is new, even with the wind howling at its tattered edges.

I've never been like that, I can't pretend. You know and I know. You don't know why I'm like this and neither do I; I don't know why you're not like this but I know that I cannot be any other way.

Sometimes I can hear you on the other side of the wall, can feel your movements in the next room, just like when we were children.

We didn't talk about any of it then. We still don't now.

******************************** Whoever you are now, wherever you live, whatever your home looks like. Across the continents and the waters and the miles between us. All I want to tell you is that I love you. That I don't blame you for any of it, nor for how differently we grew. That I respect your choice to be you, just as I have insisted on being me. That it is ok, all the things we will never say to each other. That we don't need to say them to each other. That our truths are true beyond words, that I don't need you to hold them the same way I do.

I hope you are well. I hope your home is one that lets in the light and the sound of the birds each time spring unfolds again. I hope it is a place that lets you breathe easy. A place where you can be free.

[evasheart-blog]

Diary entry.

This is the sheet music of my life.

This is my heart, the translation you can read. My life, the canvas onto which I’ve thrown this paint. The art I have lived through these twisting, strange, cruel, beautiful years.

It is my heart in my mind my heart in my hands this heart forever living in my mouth.

It is me like the planet, almost all water, with a few bits of flesh scattered across.

What makes it art is How it flows through me How I live it How I embody these things I write, whether I write them or not What makes it art is not You being able to see it Read it Understand it.

It is art all the time All the pieces that don’t always seem to connect but eventually, in their time, over arcs and waves of years and places and different me’s, resurface.

This life is art all the time. Some people are like that. It is the trade-off. I wasn’t made to live easy, but I was made to live like this.

What makes it art is The plain truths of what I write for you to read How I get out of the way for it to speak itself If my truths sound beautiful to you It is not because I craft them that way It is because they are that way. The honesty The truth The truth through my heart. That is what makes it art.