Is it necessary to write about this? Is it necessary to recollect everything on paper if memory and feeling do the work for it? I’m over explaining, as it does no justice. I’m done with the “I’m hurt”s for its bland because I’m smiling. Not in satisfaction, not in force, but in acceptance of myself, not the situation. Movies have helped in this way. Being able to watch love blossom is still beautiful. Regardless of whom or what, love is still exceptionally beautiful, even if you are not in it yourself. I can’t say I are not envy, for when I think of his tongue tracking her neck and his sweet childlike joy dripping through cuddles I ache, I ooze in pain as I deserve that touch once more and forever.
For only actors mimic those demands, but passion must be organic.
And you wonder; you wonder if you tasted good, if you helped the way you should have, if you were too dream-like for nature to comprehend. And you wish… you wish and hope and pray for some realism. Though despite the sweat on my palms and grip on my own thighs, life cannot or does not want to be real for everyone at times.
Are excuses just excuses? Did we built just to break? Who taught you the “strength” behind silence? It’s a-shame I end up placing my “I love you”s with the same weight as a fleeting goodbye, with the same force of a steak and a sword, pulling out the blade for the lasting duel. No three words, so driven to muses, so widely breathed and syllabled should it be a dismay. No emotion that strenuous to the soul should be said with sorrow and pain, with face of regret at vacant eyes.
And, I try to remember the beauty; the beauty in the piano soothing my words, the hearts breaking for me miles away as they yearn for me to find my beauty again. And I find it; in the sun blasting my pigmented shoulder, the air too full of others to breathe, the grays and blacks and whites I wear to let me feel more colorful. The bugs bite my bottom for a reason only to wish me life, for as long as I hear noise, the world moves too.
I didn’t endure some irreconcilable platform, I didn’t have pain pushed beyond limits, though my screeches beg otherwise from those around. I was simply put in a position for better. The everlasting question: what better? What is the better I shall face now? And is my perception of better totally in the wrong? Is better the feel good or the pain? Is it the process? Is it the beginning, middle, or end? Is it simplistic, or even widely realistic if we must touch on the topic?
Because, here’s the thing. When you finally get to a notion of potential better, the balloon is poked from the first instance, only you don’t know about the helium and the hole, but only know about a faint hissing noise we further assimilate to by nature, ignoring the drops of air; the balloon’s death subsequently becomes a surprise.
The things I’ve metaphor-ed on thus far are, a stretch to say the least, but a good one perhaps. All good writers draw upon personal wounds and, as a creative mind, use a medium, like an object, to illustrate its’ readers the point. The point, though can take its waves, so long as you are moved, you are one with the ocean. Can I be anymore cliche?
I strive to be optimistic and unapologetic, though my self esteem seems to not be in the need at times. At times, I feel disconnected and out of my body, as if the soul I inhabit is running away, catching me in a vulnerable state, with my back pinned and hands above my head in plea. Vision is blurred and foggy, just how I’d like it to be. I only wish it protected me from things I didn’t want to see, but I think we’ve both established, that’s not up to me.
I don’t know who will be next. Yes, some men are attractive, but you know how you feel some faces were made to fit yours? Side by side, it looks like that’s how its supposed to be? Because with him, I knew it wasn’t ideal. I say, “I just don’t see someone else” but my body feels indifferent. I say, “If it’s meant to be, it will come back”, but it’s not with the same clear white, icy blue, bright clouded sky I felt before. The only thing I feel is the emphasis on “back”, long stretch, a good seven months, though I don’t know what it is. Something with seven I see. Figured I’d jot it down for I’m crazy with my numerical insignificance.
I don’t feel like sweating anymore.
Photo credit: Linda Edit