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Nobody-but-myself

"A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.
This may sound easy. It isn’t.
A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.
Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."

A poignant piece on staying true to one's self and feelings, by one of my favourite poets - ee cummings.

I believe that the Universe is benevolent enough to send you gentle reminders and help whenever you need them. I have read these words by cummings' earlier, which are actually part of a lovely letter of advice written to a budding, young poet, but stumbling upon them again last night was nothing short of a blessing.

We are all part a sum of our experiences and part our inherent feelings and desires, which may or may not be rooted in the lives we had already lived. We present these parts piecemeal to the people we encounter over time and they make of what it what they will. And it's really not up to us how they interpret or even use these pieces of ourselves that we give to them. You can't stop being who you are just to suit the notions of the people that are privileged to know you, whether or not they realise it. A stream of water at its original source will always remain exactly that, it doesn't matter what happens to it once it is filled into receptacles and turned into something else. An artist creates a work of art based on his or her vision and sometimes, experiences, but has no control over how it is interpreted and used once it is sold or given away. An ode to one's first love, carved out of marble in the privacy of one's space could end up as an ash tray on the cold, glass table of a complete stranger. Does the artist turn then into an ash tray maker or remain his or her true self? 
When I first met someone who is now an integral part of my life, he told me I was too emotional and carried too much baggage. After an initial battle with myself, I decided that I wasn't going to change, not even for him. He was free to walk along with me while I shouldered my load, but I wasn't going to leave anything behind that I myself did not want to get rid of. It wasn't a smooth ride, but we're now in a place where he even helps me unpack sometimes, and sometimes, stops and waits by the road with me when I need to take a break. Of course, he doesn't ever carry any of it for me because the load is mine and only mine to bear. But the acceptance has been liberating, for us both. 

I can continue being the crazy, emotional fool while he plays the perfect foil to my eccentricities. And when my insecurities act up, I can ask him the weirdest questions completely out of context and he will respond with nothing but sincerity. He can continue being the control freak that he is and my lazy, disorderly ass can continue to resist him. I can be as spontaneous as I like, while he can plan it down to the last detail. I can continue to breathe and feel, and he can continue to think and do (not realising that he is actually feeling too). 

We can both be nobody-but-ourselves. 

The Cloudcutter

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