A Girl Named Leney

THE JOURNAL

A Vessel

the vessel of me— i often think of my body in this way. 
as a container. 
as something that is capable of holding and harboring and keeping but also having the ability to be empty and having things poured out of it. 
namely thoughts, actions, emotions.
but i also just love the word vessel— as it’s another name for a ship. 
which my #daughterofasailor heart loves of course.
.
i think too of percentages. 
how much am i holding within me now that is good? 
how much is bad? 
do i recognize all of the bad within me and -if so- why am i still holding onto it?
can i be so defined, so traced out and compartmentalized and dually pure and un-pure to know without question the differences of each? 
i fear i am more volatile-capricious-mercurial than that.
i fear that i am often transparently so. 
i fear that my container is likely made of glass, and therefor able to be seen through into it’s contents easily and is left bare and awaiting judgement accordingly. 
vulnerable to cracks and shattering.
.
but opposingly i don’t think i would like to be made of stone.  
i wouldn’t want such coldness and impenetrable hardness to be my make-up.
i want to be softer than that. 
warmer than that.
.
what then is a good material to be made of?
mere flesh and bone?
is it wrong to see those things as paltry?
for, perhaps they are enough. 
perhaps the container of me is made so for that very reason, and trying to assimilate to another form would be to dishonor the one i’ve been given.