looking at the fires in the distance from burnt out buildings, wreaked by shelling, blasted
I try to write like others write but it’s not possible. It’s probable you could attempt to draw ideas from other’s writing but it will still come out like you write it. Not them. Which is at it should be.
People reading this know me. some more than others.
I’m not what you think.
I’m more than that. And less. And hollow, transparent, empty and full of nothing at the same time.
Like when Fitzroy slashes Bishop across the abdomen and all there is but a sound like balloon puncturing or the whoosh of splintered glass and there stands a bleeding Mistique.
An illusion, produced for an effect, a purpose but solely not what that person is.
What I am.
And what am i.
I’m quiet, I’m someone who doesn’t talk much. For a variety of reasons but often the same truth. I am someone who won’t instigate contact, won’t initiate that first phone call. Someone that finds active speech difficult if not in person, that finds verbal pausing a foreign entity, who cannot read signals very well and has issue with people.
My mom talked today about trust. How we, all of us, find it hard to trust people we haven’t known for a time. We are a tight family. Somewhat distrusting for a variety of reasons. How the family’s been treated in the past. How I’ve been treated. People who promise something and then bail, that causes wounding, little red ribbons of colour across me, and when that scar tissue forms it’s a reminder of that event, of that wound, and then the nerve damage is evident to that person. The numbness over the subject, and therefore the person behind it. I feel nothing. I don’t hate. I rarely hate people who have hurt me. I just feel nothing.
And I don’t want to feel nothing towards someone I would like to feel something towards.
But that would require trust and that is something I don’t give out on first dates, on chats on websites, over coffee and pastries.
That has to be earned. Coaxed from my insides.
It never has been. Ever.
I don’t talk about myself. Family. Very close friends maybe.
I am not proactive at putting my own feelings into an equation. My own beliefs. I don’t want to push that person. And that is what I’ve seen it as. Pushing, enforcing, reinforcing. Nope I will never do that. What I am, by my nature, is unique and I would never try to enforce my opinion or ideas on others like society tried to enforce theirs upon me.
Where does that leave me? I don’t know.
I know what I want in a relationship. But wishing for the moon is unpleasant and tiresome. I want someone who recognises the dichotomy in me. the conflict, the damage. Not just from the usual channels, the usual perpetrators but my lack of interaction at times in my life. I’m an only child and for many years I enjoyed my own company. I still do, it is empowering and free. I don’t have to walk a blind tightrope of compromise, play a game where I don’t even see the rules enforced let alone know what they are. Hope my answers are correct, that my affection is not too cloying, my abruptness not too sharp, my will not too strong, my mannerisms appropriate and not offensive.
But I want to grow and I would love someone other than me to help me grow more than where I am right now.
What I want is someone who is not afraid or ashamed of the scars I possess, both physical and mental. Not afraid to touch me, nor afraid not to when I don’t want to be touched in fear of my own failing. To know me in my doubt and self-worth and that both of these things are unbalanced and have to prop me up at times when I feel like I’m good for nothing more than hard labour. I want someone I can waste time with, and not feel scared at going for walks into town with. Not get angsty if I’m around people or scared of getting worn down when I don’t see the end of an excursion. I want someone who can give me some structure in my life rather than the freewheeling that is common these days.
What I want the most of all is someone who can read me to see when I need space to reset my head, calm my spirit and steady my resolve with thinking I’m cold, frigid, standoff-ish.
I want trips out to London, to the sea, to America.
I want someone who can teach me what I don’t know. About cooking, fashion, music, television, art, history, love, life.
I know I know little. That others around me know so much more than I do. Have some gifts that I do not possess, but I know I have things that others lack. Something I don’t understand. Something powerful, something deep. Understanding of my own stillness, my own failure at what I do. And what I continue to do.
Someone who sees the wonder where I see it. In things I can’t explain. The graphicness of the salt during rainstorms, the impact when two football players collide, the way your heart moves during a emotive score when the hero finally finds the heroine, or doesn’t and they share tearful farewells knowing they will never meet again, the weariness of facing a world that is so brilliant yet so cruel. Of keeping the wonder despite the overwhelmingness of available reason. Who isn’t afraid to dream.
Who I’m not scared to say silly stupid shit to and be told ‘What the hell are you talking about’.
[not in a good way, people tell me that in a good way all the time. But then, I’m never speaking from the heart on those times].
Someone I can trust.
Trust.
“a person on whom or thing on which one relies” or “reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence”.
Trust to see my bad points without flinching. And I have several. And they are not easy to control. But I try. I have tried since I knew what I had to do with my life in order to live it, and at times it has not been related to those specifics.
It is simple, yet it is so hard. A mountain unclimbable. But what is there but hope?
Even if it drives you mad there is nothing wrong with having it. It costs nothing save your sanity and you never have to pay it back.
People reading this know me. some more than others.
I’m not what you think.
I’m more than that. And less. And hollow, transparent, empty and full of nothing at the same time.
Like when Fitzroy slashes Bishop across the abdomen and all there is but a sound like balloon puncturing or the whoosh of splintered glass and there stands a bleeding Mistique.
An illusion, produced for an effect, a purpose but solely not what that person is.
What I am.
And what am i.
I’m quiet, I’m someone who doesn’t talk much. For a variety of reasons but often the same truth. I am someone who won’t instigate contact, won’t initiate that first phone call. Someone that finds active speech difficult if not in person, that finds verbal pausing a foreign entity, who cannot read signals very well and has issue with people.
My mom talked today about trust. How we, all of us, find it hard to trust people we haven’t known for a time. We are a tight family. Somewhat distrusting for a variety of reasons. How the family’s been treated in the past. How I’ve been treated. People who promise something and then bail, that causes wounding, little red ribbons of colour across me, and when that scar tissue forms it’s a reminder of that event, of that wound, and then the nerve damage is evident to that person. The numbness over the subject, and therefore the person behind it. I feel nothing. I don’t hate. I rarely hate people who have hurt me. I just feel nothing.
And I don’t want to feel nothing towards someone I would like to feel something towards.
But that would require trust and that is something I don’t give out on first dates, on chats on websites, over coffee and pastries.
That has to be earned. Coaxed from my insides.
It never has been. Ever.
I don’t talk about myself. Family. Very close friends maybe.
I am not proactive at putting my own feelings into an equation. My own beliefs. I don’t want to push that person. And that is what I’ve seen it as. Pushing, enforcing, reinforcing. Nope I will never do that. What I am, by my nature, is unique and I would never try to enforce my opinion or ideas on others like society tried to enforce theirs upon me.
Where does that leave me? I don’t know.
I know what I want in a relationship. But wishing for the moon is unpleasant and tiresome. I want someone who recognises the dichotomy in me. the conflict, the damage. Not just from the usual channels, the usual perpetrators but my lack of interaction at times in my life. I’m an only child and for many years I enjoyed my own company. I still do, it is empowering and free. I don’t have to walk a blind tightrope of compromise, play a game where I don’t even see the rules enforced let alone know what they are. Hope my answers are correct, that my affection is not too cloying, my abruptness not too sharp, my will not too strong, my mannerisms appropriate and not offensive.
But I want to grow and I would love someone other than me to help me grow more than where I am right now.
What I want is someone who is not afraid or ashamed of the scars I possess, both physical and mental. Not afraid to touch me, nor afraid not to when I don’t want to be touched in fear of my own failing. To know me in my doubt and self-worth and that both of these things are unbalanced and have to prop me up at times when I feel like I’m good for nothing more than hard labour. I want someone I can waste time with, and not feel scared at going for walks into town with. Not get angsty if I’m around people or scared of getting worn down when I don’t see the end of an excursion. I want someone who can give me some structure in my life rather than the freewheeling that is common these days.
What I want the most of all is someone who can read me to see when I need space to reset my head, calm my spirit and steady my resolve with thinking I’m cold, frigid, standoff-ish.
I want trips out to London, to the sea, to America.
I want someone who can teach me what I don’t know. About cooking, fashion, music, television, art, history, love, life.
I know I know little. That others around me know so much more than I do. Have some gifts that I do not possess, but I know I have things that others lack. Something I don’t understand. Something powerful, something deep. Understanding of my own stillness, my own failure at what I do. And what I continue to do.
Someone who sees the wonder where I see it. In things I can’t explain. The graphicness of the salt during rainstorms, the impact when two football players collide, the way your heart moves during a emotive score when the hero finally finds the heroine, or doesn’t and they share tearful farewells knowing they will never meet again, the weariness of facing a world that is so brilliant yet so cruel. Of keeping the wonder despite the overwhelmingness of available reason. Who isn’t afraid to dream.
Who I’m not scared to say silly stupid shit to and be told ‘What the hell are you talking about’.
[not in a good way, people tell me that in a good way all the time. But then, I’m never speaking from the heart on those times].
Someone I can trust.
Trust.
“a person on whom or thing on which one relies” or “reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence”.
Trust to see my bad points without flinching. And I have several. And they are not easy to control. But I try. I have tried since I knew what I had to do with my life in order to live it, and at times it has not been related to those specifics.
It is simple, yet it is so hard. A mountain unclimbable. But what is there but hope?
Even if it drives you mad there is nothing wrong with having it. It costs nothing save your sanity and you never have to pay it back.