Jul 2014
In a myriad of countless faults, I hide under vague words and a morbid recourse of sordid worded prose. I rarely am understood in the writing, which I normally expect (not in self pity, mind you) because that specific outlet is the only way I know to unleash what I feel and at the same time, understand more of myself. It isn’t necessarily for anyone else. I am a coward, burying my confusing thoughtstreams and heartrhythms in to a metaphorical and vague tomb, masoned and built with rot-brick and acidic ichor as caulk.
Let’s be clear; I am not a perfect person. On an average day, I don’t particularly think of myself as even a good person. Sashays of brevity and a courtly manner may indicate a misunderstood and polite soul, and to an extent, I grant that this is true in the sense that I never wish to push my inner self on anyone. However, beyond and inside the carefully crafted facade of courteousness and the feigned smile, I am an abysmal vat. I am a cavity consisting merely of rage, indifference, and unwholesomeness. This is not an admirable trait, something I have never been or will be proud of, and is said as informative as possible rather than in an attempt to intimidate or distill fear, so you may have an understanding of how I feel the things I do as the topics are discussed here throughout.
I feel it necessary to begin and end with love. More the idea of it, really. The idea of love is beautiful and enticing, but if I have ever felt it before, I know the pain of losing it far outweighs the joys within it. I want and most wish to be the “writer”, the “poet” even, to describe what I feel for love and yet, it slips through my fingers like water through mesh; Slow enough that I can see it, feel it, know it’s there, but fleeting and never remaining.I yearn for it badly in various forms, because like any other imperfect being, I crave it. The feeling of being loved is one thing, a momentous and great thing, but the knowledge that you love something honestly and purely out of your own volition is a feeling I desperately want to be akin with. I long to be able to put the words together (and trust me, I know a fair amount of words) to describe what I feel about this sensation, of how much I want this sensation, but each time, I fail and fall on the grounds of repetitive and likely plagiarized folly. In an attempt to share the wanton feeling of acceptance in the arms of another human being, I succeed in only deprecating myself and pushing further away in to my own self-hating chasm as I realize that I have again, fallen a bit short of the message I had tried to convey.
With all my might and will combined, I will sit for hours and think of a new way to describe the beauty of one’s eyes, or the curve of a jaw, even the floating melody of the voice, but what I describe has been penned before and better from their hands than mine. I discuss the unwilling, devout feeling of being alone, romanticized and dressed up for the show, to entertain in some form, yet in the end, all I can say to myself in this modern world after the verses are written is “I guess I’m pretty lonely.” It is some form of irony in itself, I feel, that so many of the greatest people I know can elaborate on loneliness in better terms than I, while being completely happy with the person they love. I must also grant that there is a flutter of bitterness in me from that, as I slightly envy that ability and situation.
The women have come and gone, many mutual agreements, some unfortunate endings, but as I exist today, I find myself wanting more than this. I want not to have someone give themself to me exactly, but to give someone a piece of myself. Perhaps they can show me what it means to feel something other than what’s inside right now. I am understanding of the the fact that at this point, this may seem like whiny tripe, but I admit that it feels as if a bit of weight has lifted in being able to finally put in to words a feeling that causes more than moderate struggle in my head. I have never been afraid to die, or had a fear of regretting “not living”, I’m actually quite curious about death, but I’ve recently found within myself that I would honestly and contently prefer to not end life on the word, “alone.”
Let’s be clear; I am not a perfect person. On an average day, I don’t particularly think of myself as even a good person. Sashays of brevity and a courtly manner may indicate a misunderstood and polite soul, and to an extent, I grant that this is true in the sense that I never wish to push my inner self on anyone. However, beyond and inside the carefully crafted facade of courteousness and the feigned smile, I am an abysmal vat. I am a cavity consisting merely of rage, indifference, and unwholesomeness. This is not an admirable trait, something I have never been or will be proud of, and is said as informative as possible rather than in an attempt to intimidate or distill fear, so you may have an understanding of how I feel the things I do as the topics are discussed here throughout.
I feel it necessary to begin and end with love. More the idea of it, really. The idea of love is beautiful and enticing, but if I have ever felt it before, I know the pain of losing it far outweighs the joys within it. I want and most wish to be the “writer”, the “poet” even, to describe what I feel for love and yet, it slips through my fingers like water through mesh; Slow enough that I can see it, feel it, know it’s there, but fleeting and never remaining.I yearn for it badly in various forms, because like any other imperfect being, I crave it. The feeling of being loved is one thing, a momentous and great thing, but the knowledge that you love something honestly and purely out of your own volition is a feeling I desperately want to be akin with. I long to be able to put the words together (and trust me, I know a fair amount of words) to describe what I feel about this sensation, of how much I want this sensation, but each time, I fail and fall on the grounds of repetitive and likely plagiarized folly. In an attempt to share the wanton feeling of acceptance in the arms of another human being, I succeed in only deprecating myself and pushing further away in to my own self-hating chasm as I realize that I have again, fallen a bit short of the message I had tried to convey.
With all my might and will combined, I will sit for hours and think of a new way to describe the beauty of one’s eyes, or the curve of a jaw, even the floating melody of the voice, but what I describe has been penned before and better from their hands than mine. I discuss the unwilling, devout feeling of being alone, romanticized and dressed up for the show, to entertain in some form, yet in the end, all I can say to myself in this modern world after the verses are written is “I guess I’m pretty lonely.” It is some form of irony in itself, I feel, that so many of the greatest people I know can elaborate on loneliness in better terms than I, while being completely happy with the person they love. I must also grant that there is a flutter of bitterness in me from that, as I slightly envy that ability and situation.
The women have come and gone, many mutual agreements, some unfortunate endings, but as I exist today, I find myself wanting more than this. I want not to have someone give themself to me exactly, but to give someone a piece of myself. Perhaps they can show me what it means to feel something other than what’s inside right now. I am understanding of the the fact that at this point, this may seem like whiny tripe, but I admit that it feels as if a bit of weight has lifted in being able to finally put in to words a feeling that causes more than moderate struggle in my head. I have never been afraid to die, or had a fear of regretting “not living”, I’m actually quite curious about death, but I’ve recently found within myself that I would honestly and contently prefer to not end life on the word, “alone.”
