Meandering
Muse aggress their beauty into my ears; the music I collected to create an emotion for—maybe of—you creates a space for words to enter from, to flow through.
I confess I have done this once more, under similar circumstances; a someone I can't escape, or break, this attachment to isn't in reach, but this mind won't let go, won't quiet. So into the internet I escape, with fingers and keys instead of voice and gesticulation, to express, unload, divest myself of the volume. So much volume.
I wish, I wish so badly, I was the man who was only worried; whose neurotic phone-checking and relentless considerations about contact owed only to some selfless benevolence. And make no mistake; I am worried for you; not because you might not be "ok" in that callous, off-handed euphemism of that the word. In this sense of course you must be "ok"; breathing, safe from danger, fed and warm. But I wish such for everything that breathes and moves, whether escaped alone from an egg abandoned to some instinctual place or mothered into being with purpose and care. No, I am not worried that you aren't "ok". I am worried that white-knuckled and teeth-grit, emotion locked tightly out of site, that "ok" is all that you are, when, for you, this seems a paltry inadequacy. I worry that you are simply moving from one moment to the next with indifference. I am worried that the crushingly beautiful creature I've so shortly known is simply being crushed into "ok", "fine", "alright". In what universe is it acceptable to abandon a heart such as yours to these neutralities?
Rather I worry more for what concessions you might make, for how you might grow quiet and tired and limp. I worry not for your safety but for the theft of your light, which is, which ought, to be so bright. So very bright.
But though I worry, were I stronger, were I the selfless man, composed and comfortable in his own skin and mind I aspire to be, I would worry only for you. I hate this itch, this frantic need to reach for you and be reached for. It's just the emptiness where love or peace or something else I've read about but never really held is supposed to be, screeching at me. Whispered questions and cruel doubts slink into a mind otherwise determined to do right by you. How ironic is it to be ashamed of shame itself? Or perhaps it's just obvious; I don't know, I never know.
But you're in my mind, and I know in my belly that now is the time when I must demonstrate my word if it is to be worth anything. And oh how I long to see in your eyes that trust, that confidence, that quiet safety that affirms I've finished with disappointing and being disappointed.
So I'm writing, not to anyone, not even to me. From my fingers come the words, and through the words the emotion dwindles and quiets, and then I can take up the fight again.
I want to call and ask you if you're well, but I won't, so that you will be; so that you can believe in me, and thus my love, and therefore feel and be loved—and how else has anyone ever been well?
I confess I have done this once more, under similar circumstances; a someone I can't escape, or break, this attachment to isn't in reach, but this mind won't let go, won't quiet. So into the internet I escape, with fingers and keys instead of voice and gesticulation, to express, unload, divest myself of the volume. So much volume.
I wish, I wish so badly, I was the man who was only worried; whose neurotic phone-checking and relentless considerations about contact owed only to some selfless benevolence. And make no mistake; I am worried for you; not because you might not be "ok" in that callous, off-handed euphemism of that the word. In this sense of course you must be "ok"; breathing, safe from danger, fed and warm. But I wish such for everything that breathes and moves, whether escaped alone from an egg abandoned to some instinctual place or mothered into being with purpose and care. No, I am not worried that you aren't "ok". I am worried that white-knuckled and teeth-grit, emotion locked tightly out of site, that "ok" is all that you are, when, for you, this seems a paltry inadequacy. I worry that you are simply moving from one moment to the next with indifference. I am worried that the crushingly beautiful creature I've so shortly known is simply being crushed into "ok", "fine", "alright". In what universe is it acceptable to abandon a heart such as yours to these neutralities?
Rather I worry more for what concessions you might make, for how you might grow quiet and tired and limp. I worry not for your safety but for the theft of your light, which is, which ought, to be so bright. So very bright.
But though I worry, were I stronger, were I the selfless man, composed and comfortable in his own skin and mind I aspire to be, I would worry only for you. I hate this itch, this frantic need to reach for you and be reached for. It's just the emptiness where love or peace or something else I've read about but never really held is supposed to be, screeching at me. Whispered questions and cruel doubts slink into a mind otherwise determined to do right by you. How ironic is it to be ashamed of shame itself? Or perhaps it's just obvious; I don't know, I never know.
But you're in my mind, and I know in my belly that now is the time when I must demonstrate my word if it is to be worth anything. And oh how I long to see in your eyes that trust, that confidence, that quiet safety that affirms I've finished with disappointing and being disappointed.
So I'm writing, not to anyone, not even to me. From my fingers come the words, and through the words the emotion dwindles and quiets, and then I can take up the fight again.
I want to call and ask you if you're well, but I won't, so that you will be; so that you can believe in me, and thus my love, and therefore feel and be loved—and how else has anyone ever been well?
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