I’m too transparent, that’s my crime. It’s all over me, if words make it hard for you to believe – there have been so many car trips, so many forgoten stories and casualties to prove what you wanted to hear. There have been others, before, who took hold of my mind, of my reason. We were partners, me and them, partners in crime against each other, digging each other for something unknown to who we were back then. Through pain we’ve kept going, through pain we’ve avoided numbness, through withdrawl we’ve tackled the feelings we were addicted to, the ones we’ve managed to forget. Through pain we tried to make something better.
You may well search my body for proof, if what I say doesn’t translate. I bear my truth and a past for which I will not apologize. It hasn’t been too long since I was blood, dreams, pain, fear, soul searching sex, and yes, I have some stories, altough I’m a no good fella, not even a good story teller, whatsoever.
My past happened before I was who I am now and that is a story I can tell, if your intention is to get to know me well.
It’s bound to happen, I’m aware of the pattern – when I’m fed up living with myself, I ought to find something else, someone else. It is you.
With you I share this emotion, which travels far beyond than the bubble we’ve blown ourselves in, setting it to motion. Delighted, in the here and now, after all, every waking hour feels brand new, and though we travel we stay.
Growing in this world, we’ve been led to believe it’s wrong being so free – hey love, let it be. It’s enough that we’ve seen war, that we’ve fought ourselves. Should this be, it will. I know of ego and I know of devotion, should I give it up and devote myself to you I’m at last released.
I do talk too much whenever I’m stuck, when I can’t transform thoughts into intelligible and organized phrasing, when it’s over my head. In an effort to hold on to what it is that I really want to say but don’t know yet how to, I talk too much about everything, making up stories just to keep it going until it comes to me, venturing on mundane, petty, silly, funny things. Whatever I’m not doing during this confusion is erased from my mind, I’ll do my best not to think about it. For what is worth, whenever words cannot be found, a great frustration rises from uncertainty, when it’s over the answer pounds my eardrums in constant echoes, each beating sounding clearer than the previous.
As I pronounce each word back into the void, a way out of the maze shows itself.
I fear so much being afraid, I fear I’ll defy myself touching this fear to know what it is, and since they all grow from fear itself, nothingness, inexistence and inertia take hold of my brains, arms and legs, pressing my heart to stop beating. I fear being unable. I fear I’m able. I’m afraid to start. Ugh, what a sook. I’m afraid of what fossets I’m about to open. I fear the end. I’m afraid I’ll flee and give up. I fear being mediocre. I fear I’ll fail and betray what I’ve weaved into dreams, because nothing do natural should make me feel trapped. In order to break free, only doing seems to be the answer – and I do – I do it relentlessly whe fear strikes hard, stomping loud. I stop at nothing and it still haunts me. Am I driven by fear? I move faster away from it.
Inclusively, breaking out in the beginning of the healing process, when I see myself as a newborn project into a new bubble, like a bent river to another riverbend. All the while I run fast from fear by overcompensating on work thus breaking out from mediocrity’s mental confinement.
Mediocrity is a trap I often ignored and fell into, getting stuck in a rutt I would exhaust myself trying to climb out of, much like a quicksand, overhelmed with confusion, soaked and heavy, losing hope, burying myself further down.
As suggested by Blogging 101 assignment, Thursdays will become free form writting days, which is basically writting whatever comes to mind having an image as trigger. It’s the Picture Prompt Thursday.
About the way I love… it’s a tricky thing, because I will Love always and only when I let myself. The reason why lies deeply rooted in a feeling of preservation, in a feeling of freedom from others, from needs. I need only myself to achieve completion, though I need a fully costumized recipient to pour my loving brew, crafted by humbling pain and knowledge, digested into pearls of absolute generosity.
To my hungry lover this is my gift to satiate, this is my gift to ease my self indulgence.