Please understand me.


I am sitting in my room drinking strawberry tea while wishing I had the ability to instantly make others understand me. There is so much I would have them know if I were able. The depth of my romantic leanings. The colors that live like pigment under my skin. I would have them know my sense of style. My vast love of art and artistic passion. I would have them understand the way beautifully made architecture makes my heart stop beating. How my eyes long for beautiful things to capture on camera. How effortless and endless my affection is for beauty. How deep my love of humanity is. How much I long to express that beauty in tangible form.

How strange it is to me to be unable to express, without appearing conceited, just how much I love my inner me. How much I enjoy her love of texture and softness. Her secret femininity.  Her boundless leap into anything that fuels others happiness. How I long to lap up the wonder of someone who knows what makes them happy and lets themselves do it. Artists are like mana to me. Watching someone fall in love with their own work. Their own expression of the things I long to know about them from the inside out. People are so amazing. They have these places inside them where beautiful visions exist but seldom are expressed. I long constantly to peer into people. To walk their dreams like an art connoisseur and celebrate that spark of joy that cannot be expressed the same way from one person to another. Each is unique and special. Each person is special. Each breathing part of this whole a breathtaking need. To lose a human being in this world is a tragedy. Each soul contains unwritten books. Unseen paintings. Unknown potential that can never be found or seen in the way they would have expressed themselves again. This is the true pain of living only 100 years.

I sit here and I wonder if I am not slightly insane with this thirst to know people from the dreaming side instead of the daily side of their being. There is so much more to a person when they are  not thinking about the mundane elements of living. Each of them has something inside them. Something that cannot be understood as art until it bursts forward from them and connects to someone else who was struggling to understand the urges of their soul that has no name or description but still exists.

Inside me there is a person who wants to go everywhere and see everything. Wants to taste all the food and flavors of the world. Experience all the aspects of color and texture for myself. See the merchants in India and buy memories in cloth form. Taste the heat of Africa and learn how to sing tribal songs. Learn what it feels like to be in standing somewhere where the language I am hearing is not the one I grew up with. Go to places and touch palms with others who understand that life is short. Too short for blood and pain. Too short for grudges and complaints. Too short for petty worries and concerns. It is all love. All of it. Each moment of our lives a page in a book of experience we will finger slowly and reverently when our lives have ended and we are left only with the wistful memories of the moments we forgot to be thankful for.

I thank each day for it’s existence. Because I know now. Right now. What I am receiving. My awareness is strong. My understanding complete. I am living in a world of beauty. This world is fleetingly mine. Just 100 years. That is all we get. I wonder often why we don’t all put all our effort in helping each other know this beauty. I think if we were aware of the joy of being alive we would have nations of people constantly pushing for movement between countries. Wanting to show and share the wonders of their own world. The cultures they have deep pride in being part of. Wanting to show others why their world is beautiful. Wanting to share their stories. Their essence. How I long to see Asia, Africa, South America, Europe, Australia. All these places with history and human faces. All these places with people who have stories to share. I want the stories. I want the art. I want the colors to be so bright my soul files them away and keeps them for me. I want my heaven to be colored by my memories and the memories shared with me. I want my heaven to be human and art. I want that. I want that very much.

I want people to see who I am inside. To understand me. To understand that the one and only thing that is more important than being alive, is being alive and living.

Published by Bexley Benton. (Pen name)

I am B (call me BB and I will gut you) I like daisies, books, and men who understand the wisdom of Kermit the Frog.

3 thoughts on “Please understand me.

  1. May you often get the chance to see people from their dreaming side … or at least encourage them with your words to discover what lies within them so they can then share that with someone else … many do not even know they have a dreaming side, sadly. I hope to coax this out of as many people as I can and encourage them to see themselves and then facilitate someone else discovering their own selves through praise, encouragement, and by simply learning to see.

  2. You write so beautifully about reaching out, and branching out in every direction, Bekki. In a sense, by doing so, you already have begun to climb that tree. A tree with its overlapping branches touching different cultures and their experiences. I really enjoyed reading your thoughts.

    1. You just made me speechless. I adore that you used the words branching out. You know about me and my affection for trees and that just made me smile. I like you reading my thoughts. I like reading yours too. You always manage to surprise and delight me with your beauty. I think that is how I am able to appreciate it in the world.

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