“It is June, and I am tired of being brave.”
[Anne Sexton, The Truth The Dead Know]
I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow.
And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air.
The harbor of my mind is an open bay, the only access to the Island of my Self (which is a young and volcanic island, yes, but fertile and promising).
This island has been through some wars, it is true, but it is now committed to peace, under a new leader (me) who has instituted new policies to protect the place. And now - let the word go across the seven seas - there are much, much sctricter laws on the books about who may enter this harbor.
You may not come here anymore with your hard and abusive thoughts, with your plague ships of thoughts, with your slave ships of thoughts - all these will be turned away. Likewise, any thoughts that are filled with angry or starving exiles, with malcontents and pamphleteers, mutineers and violent assassins, desperate prostitutes, pimps and seditious stowaways - you may not come here anymore, either.
Cannibalistic thoughts, for obvious reason, will no longer be received. Even missionaries will be screened carefully, for sincerity.
This is a peaceful harbor, the entryway to a fine and proud island that is only now beginning to cultivate tranquillity.
If you can abide by these new laws, my dear thoughts, then you are welcome into my mind - otherwise, I shall turn you all back toward the sea fron whence you came.
This is my mission.
And it will never end.
And the days go by,
like a strand in the wind,
in the web that is my own,
I begin again…