Protected: musings of you (nows not the time to share them)

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i can feel it happening to me. 

as i raked the yard this evening, i saw my life. the simplicity of a life for the land. tending it, nourishing it. healing it in my small little way. my dreams of camaraderie, of universal union, of transcendent and widespread love—dreams that have been fuzzy since conception— are slipping, smudging a bit more every day. 

so i see it. 

abandon them. live adjacent. how broken, how horribly sad. 

i swore i’d be different. but then, i guess a lot of us think that, right? 

this isn’t wisdom. it’s hopelessness. 

with a quiet devastation and mild hesitation, i’ll reduce myself to what we all eventually reduce ourselves to be. 

i feel the breeze on my shoulders and my back. it’s also selfishness. how selfish, to want to feel this peaceful and beautiful forever. because if i did commit myself to change, to macro healing, i would not get to feel this. simple and silent. we aren’t inherently selfish, obviously, you know this. we know this. but we’re simple. and who wants to submit to a life of tyranny? a short, hectic life, and likely for no lasting effect.  

feel the fly scurry over my thigh, look at the work i’ve done, watch the wasp zip by. the birds, they glide, and the palm trees shimmer in the gentle breeze and quiet sunlight of early evening. oh this is what they mean by the glory of summer. it tricks your mind. the pool is a pot. you, glowing, sink absentmindedly to simmer in summer. 

i must clarify why i’ve shifted. why the rush of my words has slowed to a mellow predictability. no more allusions or illusions. there are only so many textiles to compare your touch to and only so many celestial bodies to project my consciousness onto. i guess now, the only beauty to me is true originality, to speak with the force of a unique perspective. no more that’s conscious of the male gaze, no more from one dulling her brilliance with a dusting of what’s just been done. clear and concise and decisive, divisive. there’s no more time for mucking around; who knows how long i’ve got left to speak? write.

everyone loves the idea of you. let them love you.

this isn’t to invalidate the beautiful love between you. but how hard is it to love someone pretty? someone light and joyous and quick and fun and loving. your subconscious polished persona, usually reserved for situations of perceived danger, becomes your main persona when you’re inherently anxious, because your brain tells your body that you’re always in danger.

we all know in ourselves that where there’s brilliance, there’s somewhere else with darkness. we tend to forget that with other people. it’s easier to accumulate people when they’re two dimensional— there’s more space. but is that space dynamic? instead of clay or wood or plastic or metal figures you’ve got paper dolls. you grow bored much quicker, and everything loses meaning, from the interaction, to the person, to the concept of interpersonal connection at all. eventually, you forget how to interact with anything more complex, because you’ve shrunken your capacity to interact like a starved stomach. luckily, like that stomach, it can grow back to its normal size. but you have to work at it, and you have to be careful and you have to listen to yourself to know how far you can stretch. push yourself to grow grow grow but know when growth becomes over-exertion, undermining all of your progress and shaking your confidence.

we can’t love a lie, not truly. only the idea of it, which is not a relationship and not a connection. it’s a reflection of our ideals, and keeps us all stuck in complacency.

hey. the whole way, i’ll be here. to show you that someone who sees you for your perceived ugliness sees it outshined by your beauty. skin will always shine brighter than a plastic mask. remove it and you’ll glow in hues