“I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it.”
Faith in Humanity is trusting that most humans have good in their hearts. That most of us, though we are frail and faltered, have good intentions. We, as humans, strike out with the best intentions. Therefore, we can trust, though error, most of us are trying to not do wrong, do to you wrong.
It can feel naive. I feel naive, at times. But I like my life better, living it this way. These same beliefs I hold myself accountable to as well. Though I may make mistakes, hurt feelings, etc., my intentions are not of an evil or conspiring nature. With that I can find some peace in life.
Of course, I do believe there are exceptions to that rule.
I’m running as far away as I can from anywhere. All directions. Seeing all points falling into the distance, I still run. There’s too much in the air that’s left. Too much resonating. I feel the vibrations in my skin. I know I’m still too close. Still to near what it was I was running from. I can’t stop. I must continue to move forward. Forgetting careful steps. Forgetting paths. Forgetting direction. Just away.
I like to hide.
Finding a safe place that’s just my own. I can be myself here. The vulnerable self.
Like a Turtle, I have to gather strength for the day. The morning ritual. Alarm. Let dog out. Take shower. Coffee. Breakfast. Day.
Counting down till the moments when the day is real again. Inside my cave the time doesn’t matter. It’s “real life” that takes the hours.
Forceful vulnerability is one of the most cruel and unusual punishments.
I’m not a book to be read and devoured. Page turner. Chaptered. Preface. Prologue.
If I was I’d be paper back. You can see the use easily. Wear and tear.
Wouldn’t that be easier for you? That way what you interpret me to be I would then be. Making me amount to some desirous interlude. Something you escape from the reality into. I’m fictional.
If a book could somehow glare at the reader that would be happening momentarily.
Dear reader, fuck you and your insurmountable stereotypes. It is fun to imagine the world as simple as you make it. Hearts and flowers. Successes and triumphs.
Your gross naivety drives me to insanity. Sickness. Food poisoning.
What you produce in your thought bubbles is romantic and ridiculous. Temporary and incorrect. You misinterpret the information set in front of you.
It would be so nice to live in your world. A world where what you want things to mean, they mean. Truly, “the world is what you make of it.” Hearts and flowers.
Rose-colored glasses my ass; you live in a comatose state. I want to smoke what you’re smoking, oh reader. Please. For it doesn’t matter what the words say. Pages blank, you read what you want.
Because apparently, you’re imagination is greater.
“He who knows others is wise. He who knows himself is enlightened.”
– Lao Tzu
I’m attempting to disallow my overwhelming accomplishments to detract attention from me, on this day.
Life. What a fucking bitch.
Yes, I am giving sarcasm this early. I did not have coffee, don’t need it. I need a shot of some Fireball.
It is that kind of day.
I have a boundless amount of irony in relation to my life’s path. Maybe it should be a book…”The ‘How To’ get-yourself-to-a-place-where-you NEED a ‘How To’ book.”
Laughter is humility, right?
The inside joke is that numbers and math in no way reflect our true accomplishments in life.
The irony is that no matter how much I know that to be true…I just don’t feel that way.
You’re an unwelcome visitor. Trespassing. You stomp through the serene meadows and swiftly chop down all signs of life. You hunt for sport. You kill for power. The enigmatic overflows of dreamless notes are devoured into your darkness.
In the after glow of a great book moment you eat away. Chipping. Gnawing. You gather in all the recesses. You are a plague.
Your hunger is insatiable. All that is will be yours. All that can be taken and broken shall be. You are an ever brewing wake.
In you I see evil. I feel it. Taste it. In you are all the darkest values and desires. To you life is what you can take out of it. What can be removed. Tangible, delectable, destruction. We are the galaxy and you are the sun. Revolved. Distorted. Your surface ever-changing yet mirrored.
You are hard to define because in that would be to know you. There is no one that knows you. Chopped character flaws. Descriptions and whispers.
To say you are anything would mean you were complete. You are without. You are wanting. Destitute and diluted.
I wish I had strayed away from you. Toxic and overbearing, misleading and mindful. We falter to those who need. Interpretations to the lust misunderstood. I’m left, pieces stranded, puzzle. Shapes. Angular and incomplete.
You are the night.
You are the nothing.
“I discovered that what’s really important for a creator isn’t what we vaguely define as inspiration or even what it is we want to say, recall, regret, or rebel against. No, what’s important is the way we say it. Art is all about craftsmanship. Others can interpret craftsmanship as style if they wish. Style is what unites memory or recollection, ideology, sentiment, nostalgia, presentiment, to the way we express all that. It’s not what we say but how we say it that matters.”
– Federico Fellini
My sexuality is feeling boundless as well as my insecurity.
It is the way of the world those being tethered to one another. Keeping us all locked in a prison of irony and sanctity.
There are so many things I am aching for, from life, and I’m feeling trapped from them. Admittedly, by my own doing.
For the first time in so long I’m wanting to feel the freshness of a new relationship, the clarity of its walls being unknown. Keeping definitions to a minimum. I want and am excited to learn someone new.
I am curious and crazed. My book shelf as of late not helping (Fifty shades of Fucked Up).
I feel like a dog.
Windows rolled down. Hair blowing in the breeze. Panting.
I love it.