Writer Feels

January 12, 2017

I need some sort of expression, a hiding place, a consolation, that the world is not ending.That it's not as ugly. I'll tell you my childhood memories, and my stupidest mistakes, does this count? Or would it be enough to make me believe, that this hate is not bigger ?

I see you beautiful people, those smiles, the friendly warmth around a fire, we chat and relate. You are hope! You make me feel alive again, Believe in something.These little things, they make me happy. But also can be the most irritating. It seems that, I have neglected somehow that I am sensitive. I always felt some sort of pressure to be strong, to stand my ground. Show resilience. But I am learning to embrace vulnerability more, to be gentle, to simply ask for what I need, even if it means exposing all the tender skin beneath the walls I've built , NOT to swallow back the ache in my throat and hold back the tears in my eyes. To own it. It's OK, NOT to be mysterious and charming. It's OK to be real.To show radical honesty.

It's OK sometimes NOT to abide by the pressure to leave some profound mark in this world. It's OK to be you now.  In fact, it's perfect. Everything is where it should be. You are now where you need to be. To soften and soothe. To slow down and notice.

I feel empty now, ethereal kind of empty, like the desert or the universe, a starry sky. Sometimes I forget to embrace my layers. I forget that I am complex. To surrender to my creative impulses, to let them burst, allow them to take the time and lonesomeness they need to develop, and fully unfold. That when I hold them in, I cannot be me. Just a fragment. Is what you see. There will always be something itching in me. Ready to explode gently, and beautifully.