Sometimes we say stuff, just to try and fill the gaps with a kind of explanation, even if it doesn’t make much sense. Not when you examine it properly.
What are we running from anyway? Are the words just a way to put some distance between things that cause us pain? Are they better than silence?
I’m a little confused and constantly surprised with all the strangeness, although I don’t really get why… I mean, if there’s one thing that’s predictable…
Can’t help but think of tiny baby bird eggs and how easily the shells are crushed. Which in a way is good… makes it easy for those tiny new birdlings to peck their way out when its time… but also means they’re quite fragile right up til…
Sand with crumbled sea shells, crunchy underfoot. So flimsy and yet remains in one piece, somehow. A piece of a larger whole. Thankfully. Well, at least for the time being.
The ache is heavy, dragging, spreading, stretching. Taking up space in my chest cavity leaving way less room for my lungs. Making it harder to breathe deeply.
Can’t blurt out what I really want to say, it’ll upset people. That’s not what I want. But what happened to being able to be really honest?
Perhaps it’s against the rules (no matter what they say) in this strange world where planning for the future is given higher priority than seeing the world straight up as it is, right now.
It is easier, sure, to just… not. Apparently.
But then I think – wow, it must look all-so different as you survey your version of this story.
I don’t belong here. But I can’t really get too far away – your story needs its anti-heroine, doesn’t it?
So you paint me shades of your discontent. A vagabond, in need of a proper frame of reference. According to you.
Tricky, tricky, fairy-floss-like melt-in-your-mouth confusion and not quite there-ness, and then, oh, just then you’ll say what I wish you’d said a while back.
But seems those words never come out when they would’ve been useful. It’s easier to look like you might be helpful, without having to potently act in that capacity, ever.
Alone, alone, alone. Always alone. Sitting around that table but there’s no warmth in your embrace. It’s a kind of a game.
And it’s silent. Can’t say those words. Just have to learn to say nothing. But then, that makes me like the rest of you, not what I want at all.
I’ve no idea what you think of this mess. Help is only help when it’s given freely, not when you make me beg.
Loving people in my life, it seems, is often a game of peeling the onion. Remove another layer, I just have to keep on shifting my viewpoint, because I’m never quite in the right position and that gets painful after a while.
Always, I try to forget what’s been, just to trust again afresh. But you never have anything new for me, just the same old same old…
I don’t belong here.
Where are the others like me? Those who don’t run from, but towards wounded people?
Certainly, I won’t find the answers here amongst blood kin.
Never have. Never will.