Tying Up Loose Ends

This is not a game.

As I constantly remind myself of that, I find it hard to be convinced that I’m truly the only person trustworthy enough to make decisions for myself. At the same time,  I do not trust others. And that bothers me tremendously because if I don’t trust myself and others included, who then is making these decisions for me?

Ignorance perhaps. And that terrifies me even more. I feel as though I’m flitting between these ideas of denial and reality, choosing as and when to enter these different realms as I please. A controlled form of ignorance if you will. I find that I’m inclined to believe every action or decision I make will lead to a didactic result. That “hey, if something goes wrong at least you learned something.” But I can’t help but think that maybe that approach is wrong.

We talk of not being afraid to make mistakes, that it is okay to fail and fail as long as we keep trying. That eventually you will get it. But what if the reason we tell ourselves that is because we don’t know any better than to latch onto the first thing we think we feel most passionately about and commit all of our energy and time into it just because we are told to follow our passion. What if we mistake passion for something we love but are not actually good at. How does one ever reach the apex being blinded like that?

Is it possible for one to be selfish towards oneself? Because in order to sustain that “passion” one forgoes other eventualities that could perhaps bring a more desirable result. Life is too short to be dedicated to only one thing. But that is what we are told, that we are only able to truly love one thing. That is what saddens and frightens me – that life is indeed a game, where we all play to only achieve that one solitary goal.

A Star To Wish Upon

The clock ticks, as the night weaves by, inking thoughts into dreams.

Pins of light, waver in slow movements across the dark canvas.

A solemn sigh fills the void, a whisper of wishfulness into the crevices of the heart.

Meep

I seemed to have forgotten about this space.

Ah, well what did I say. Writing is hard when you’re happy (and busy, of course). So much energy is focused externally, that there’s little left for the insides.

I simply need time to think. Funny how not too long ago I was waiting for time to pass.

Intriguing how the heart and mind re-wires itself so efficiently as if someone just hit the reset button. Only that it took a while for it to happen. But it’s almost like a refreshed canvas, purged of past memories – clean of sadness.

I think that’s the part that saddens me a little, ironically. That I seemed to have forgotten what the sadness once felt like. No, I’m not a habitual self-inflicter of pain. But like I said before – to feel is to live. And how much more feel can you get out of sadness.

Not asking for it, just merely saying.

That’s all.

Suspension

I had never knew silence
The way it hangs between us
In its soft assurance and confidence

The space between spoken words
An excuse to fall into your eyes
To breathe you in unblinkingly
To consume you as humanly possible

But I know this hunger will never be sated.

Night Drive

Do I dare look into the light
Past my consciousness
My mind swimming
Enclosed in its shell
What do I say
I grapple with my words
Your breath shortening mine
Your heart stopping mine
The light feigns play
The music drowns it out
It claws at my insides
Spurting blood and bile
I am helpless
I am inundated
As I lie in remnants
The light goes out
And I am taken

Turn Off The Lights

The switching of lights, the swift moment between seeing and not, between distraction and focus. When you lose control of yourself, in the dark, the consequences are binding. A solemn deal with the devil, enshrouded in his darkness, what becomes of you is solely yours to behold.

Much as we recognise human behaviour as undulating and erratic, a pattern can be observed especially when delving into situations that are loosely structured to resemble familiar experiences.

I realised my pattern when entering into a relationship. Not so much of resembling actions or behaviour but the phases in which I build compartments for my different emotions. It seems when getting to know a person I construct a singular box to contain every sentiment I have towards them. Because of its solitary containment, all good and bad seem to meld into a single cohesive feeling towards them – it’s either positive or negative.

But as I progress into it, the storage system becomes more complex and it’s categorised into varying intensity. I doubt that I am fully aware when I do this or even why. Perhaps it’s because of my inclination to deconstruct everything felt and experienced. It’s funny how I can really be a feeler (a person whose growth based on things felt) but it’s also really important that I break it down into its derivative forms.

And I think what I fear is by doing this I become overwhelmed by the myriad of things felt and to which “categories, ” if you will, they fall into. Also I find the inability to recycle and regurgitate these stored feelings is rendering my so-called filling system to be in disarray.

Not that it’s a bad thing – to feel ever more is to have lived more. But I am wary as to which point that my sub-conscious attempt in keeping my feelings in check will breach this rational part of me.

I always believed that you can always control what you feel – only if you allow yourself too. And I have let myself slide in the past. Never really liked the feeling of losing composure. Although I admired its sheer tenacity in overriding logical reasoning.

I think I have probably overrun my self-imposed quota of over thinking today. But I’m welcoming it with great gusto because it helps to know how I work myself, especially for the benefit of the other person in the relationship. I try my best to not let the other person get caught in my tendency to emotionally expound my thoughts too much.

It’s a learning curve. And yes while it’s throwing me off a little, I’m still as happy as I ever can be being with you.

That’s a close for now.

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