Thoughts thunk, Others sunk.

If I was taken by, what felt like, an offense it was: “I think you are trying to be too cryptic.” It wasn’t the adjective that struck me, but the assumption manifested in the verb use: “trying to be”. I am not trying to be anything, other than what shows itself, which is an after effect—and my last thought. My writing is simply a guided thought, an incessant dialogue falling before the page—it is my thought that has slipped from me, or perhaps just me thinking. My thoughts are bound to change—and it is then, that my writing will reflect that time. At that point, an observer might call me into consideration differently. But I have to support myself now (which is different than defending myself) because it has taken much getting use to and even more pushing through, to just be and not get in the way of that being. Still, if I am to be known, I almost wish at the least it will be for not trying to be anything calculated or strategized. If there is any mystery I “cryptically” exude—it is, has been and will be naturally conveyed in not knowing myself completely. I am not, yet, exempt from being followed by shadows or walking beneath shades. And even still on the flip side, what I am can easily be seen as an accident. There is so much to consider—and maybe one shouldn’t, because it may just get him stuck.
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There are always other letters that speak of you and to you differently, too:

“This genre you’re developing—somewhere in the area of contemplation, mediation—an ‘essai’ in the true sense of the word—an attempt, a try, at explicating one’s self, one’s ideas—this genre, as I was saying—seems to me to be uniquely your own—you’ve appropriated (French sense) the layered genre (Descartes, Montaigne, Baum, etc) and invented—or are inventing a sub-category that is yours alone.”

“You have a gift of articulating complex concepts in beautiful phrases, memorable phrases.”

“You tend to write English as if it were French!—this, I now see, is vital to your unique style.”

"You have written a poetic essay examining your perceptions on your body and your struggle to integrate your conceptions of the mind and body into a coherent whole. As you conclude, your body is an "art that i will forever be working at." However, without a transition--such as, "but," or "and" you sail into the next assertion that it is the "materials of the mind that matter." Furthermore, you explore these perceptions through sensory images. In a way, you are feeling your feelings as you are thinking them. The essay begins with images of blankness and silence--visual and aural images, and then you move to tactile images--touch--and it is at this point that you mention painting scars and "sickly engravings" that have "weathered around"--not on?--your thighs. Your reference to thighs is the most concrete information that you provide in this essay that communicates feelings of objectification (being objectified) and the struggle to assert yourself in the context of these fixed images and mirrors.

Chelsea, I read this as a poignant statement about being "looked at" and your need to "look back" both at yourself and all who have framed you in photos and mirrors. Indeed, those italicized assertions--"I will be made known" and "I want to know words--I want to see how I sound" seem to speak back to the stillness of the page, the visual and psychic entrapment by mirror, the silencing of words. Bravo."
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Living in a world of words is difficult. I constantly am challenged to prove that experiences and/or language will not limit my lasting power. It forces me to "be on", to see the moment in the pursuit of ever sharing it. And not just that, in writing I am incessantly reminded of a time that is no longer tangible--yet some how, known only to the writer, I must feel closely what is out of reach. It is by impulse now that I reexperience experiences--and to not become bored by the stories I know and have lived, or rather to keep things fresh, new and ever changing I must invent a bit (not only where my memory has left gaps) what was and no longer is. Of course there are redundancies within my body of work but it is just me having spoke of my interests, placing the reader where my attention goes--it is threading of motifs that pulls together a collection of work. It is not rare that I am told that I am elusive but luckily I think people have begun to understand where my concentration has been currently keeping me. This helps because regardless of however aloof I may be, I would hate to have my focus be misinterpreted as me offending someone. Out at dinner last night, a guy came up to me who I hadn't seen in almost a year and told me that even though I hadn't been hard on him--that I had given him a hard time. Although it was endearing for him to reveal this, I was surprised that those feelings had stayed with him. And worst of all that I hadn't intended for myself to come across as being interested or not--my mind was just busy elsewhere. Writing is consuming--you have to take the time to know, to stop and see every side and shade and then, you have to allow your imagination to breathe a bit and become involved in a reality it never originally existed within. Pursuing it makes sense to me though--and quite honestly it may be the only thing that makes sense. By giving me the opportunity and forcing me to take time, I find the beauty in every one and thing I have experienced. Maybe I am an idealist, but I think it is most real to want to remember moments most intensely and with most appreciation if you are to have memory of anything at all.