(no subject)
I'm going to tell you some things about me. Things that I don't even understand.
When I ask people of their problems, if they're anything like me... they automatically assume it's the busybody within them doing its job and going to work inside the mind, turning the wheels and spinning the cogs, wanting to know what's wrong just to know and have the satisfaction of knowing, like holding a shiny new piece of jewelry given to them with their name engraved specifically and lovingly into it. However, if people think anything like me... I don't ask out of nosiness, I ask as if knowing would give me the super strength to make it better. I ask to see if their faith in me is strong.. if they too believe that because they tell me what their troubles are then they will have given me the strength and the answers to a method to go about healing their hurts. I'm a bit too nurturing sometimes, and I can often imagine me taking someone I love more dearly than the air in my lungs and tending to their needs with touch and sound; crooning and cooeing and loving them with touch and the aching love inside of me I hope they can hear in my voice, see in my eyes, and feel in my touch. I don't have that love often, but when I have it, it almost drives me to tears. I'm not talking about love as in marriage and whatnot, I'm speaking of a general love. Well, i take that back, I could most certainly be speaking of that, but not solely of that. You see? I don't want kids and even so I'm cursed with a mother's instincts to nurture. Something in me screams with love, demands that I do so. I am a slave to sincerity in my actions of love... which is most certainly both a gift and a curse that has always haunted me, and will always haunt me. Like some people are haunted by the heart on their sleeve, and they can't take it down, for it is sewn there... and if unstitched would sure come undone, causing their worlds to follow after.
And yet, I'm a wretched creature, nonetheless. I toy and play and use and break and bend people to see what shape they take, what faces they'll make, what color they'll turn. People are often perplexed by intelligence... and not merely intelligence, but the way intelligence is used... and how often and cleverly hidden it can be in the midst of a lecture or a speech or an everyday conversation. They zone it out but when the mind hear it it picks up on it, knowing it as a familiar thing but not quite recognizing it; never gaining the priviledge of knowing just what it has found.. only searching and pointing, seeing the signs and painting a picture that will go unnoticed by the eyes and the ears, but the mind has heard it... the mind has heard. And one day they'll find themselves saying something that goes back to what they heard when the conversation and timing is right, and they'll wonder where they heard it... they'll question how the remembered it. Indeed, it is a clever thing.
When I ask people of their problems, if they're anything like me... they automatically assume it's the busybody within them doing its job and going to work inside the mind, turning the wheels and spinning the cogs, wanting to know what's wrong just to know and have the satisfaction of knowing, like holding a shiny new piece of jewelry given to them with their name engraved specifically and lovingly into it. However, if people think anything like me... I don't ask out of nosiness, I ask as if knowing would give me the super strength to make it better. I ask to see if their faith in me is strong.. if they too believe that because they tell me what their troubles are then they will have given me the strength and the answers to a method to go about healing their hurts. I'm a bit too nurturing sometimes, and I can often imagine me taking someone I love more dearly than the air in my lungs and tending to their needs with touch and sound; crooning and cooeing and loving them with touch and the aching love inside of me I hope they can hear in my voice, see in my eyes, and feel in my touch. I don't have that love often, but when I have it, it almost drives me to tears. I'm not talking about love as in marriage and whatnot, I'm speaking of a general love. Well, i take that back, I could most certainly be speaking of that, but not solely of that. You see? I don't want kids and even so I'm cursed with a mother's instincts to nurture. Something in me screams with love, demands that I do so. I am a slave to sincerity in my actions of love... which is most certainly both a gift and a curse that has always haunted me, and will always haunt me. Like some people are haunted by the heart on their sleeve, and they can't take it down, for it is sewn there... and if unstitched would sure come undone, causing their worlds to follow after.
And yet, I'm a wretched creature, nonetheless. I toy and play and use and break and bend people to see what shape they take, what faces they'll make, what color they'll turn. People are often perplexed by intelligence... and not merely intelligence, but the way intelligence is used... and how often and cleverly hidden it can be in the midst of a lecture or a speech or an everyday conversation. They zone it out but when the mind hear it it picks up on it, knowing it as a familiar thing but not quite recognizing it; never gaining the priviledge of knowing just what it has found.. only searching and pointing, seeing the signs and painting a picture that will go unnoticed by the eyes and the ears, but the mind has heard it... the mind has heard. And one day they'll find themselves saying something that goes back to what they heard when the conversation and timing is right, and they'll wonder where they heard it... they'll question how the remembered it. Indeed, it is a clever thing.