(no subject)
I'm going to post this here because it's a truth and it got no love in my secret journal, obviously.
2005.03.15 14.06
Dear World,
Last time I wandered around in my bare feet, it was in a parking lot. In fact, the time before the last time I wandered around in my bare feet, it was also in a parking lot. With a lad. He spoke with kind of a soft tongue and kissed with one, too. I really couldn't say why I always felt the inclination to perform shoe removal. . . The cement I stood on was always so cold, so frigid, but in a way it was tantilizing. It was mysterious. I knew it was not untravelled, yet it was solid, and strong. I knew it was not alone, because it was everywhere. And I knew it was not dying, because it was so smooth and alive beneath me.
Yet so cold.
I liked it on my feet, freezing my toes, clinging to my nerves. I liked that, not because I'm a masochist with temperate areas, but because it balanced me. While I was talking, and hiding myself from this other being. . . It reminded me that I was still me, I still felt the cold, and I still had weakness. . . The cold was beckoning me to let down my guard.
I don't know why I am always someone else around someone who is so similar to me - am I afraid? I'm afraid to be attached to someone, I'm afraid to think about them daily, hourly, non-stop. I'm afraid to be so vulnerable that the simple exit of a being can bring me to tears - or to experience emotions that people spend years loathing in.
I like the cold earth on my bare feet because it's so cold while my brain is so warm - so tired from thinking of new ways to hide me. New ways to chase people off without letting them know that I'm scared of them. I'm scared that they won't like what's hidden under this upbeat, encyclopedia of facades. The cold keeps me settled, it keeps me from overheating and breaking down.
I'm too. . . not "too". I'm quite sane, however awfully aware of my subconcious whom runs around quite like an outlaw gypsy philosopher; romantic yet adamant and passionate about trivial blather. I adore that side of me, however I fear that I'd be ever so alone if I constantly honored it.
In closing, World, I must know. . . Do you put cement in strategic areas in my life, or am I to pave my own and break up the existing?
Love,
Lindsay
2005.03.15 14.06
Dear World,
Last time I wandered around in my bare feet, it was in a parking lot. In fact, the time before the last time I wandered around in my bare feet, it was also in a parking lot. With a lad. He spoke with kind of a soft tongue and kissed with one, too. I really couldn't say why I always felt the inclination to perform shoe removal. . . The cement I stood on was always so cold, so frigid, but in a way it was tantilizing. It was mysterious. I knew it was not untravelled, yet it was solid, and strong. I knew it was not alone, because it was everywhere. And I knew it was not dying, because it was so smooth and alive beneath me.
Yet so cold.
I liked it on my feet, freezing my toes, clinging to my nerves. I liked that, not because I'm a masochist with temperate areas, but because it balanced me. While I was talking, and hiding myself from this other being. . . It reminded me that I was still me, I still felt the cold, and I still had weakness. . . The cold was beckoning me to let down my guard.
I don't know why I am always someone else around someone who is so similar to me - am I afraid? I'm afraid to be attached to someone, I'm afraid to think about them daily, hourly, non-stop. I'm afraid to be so vulnerable that the simple exit of a being can bring me to tears - or to experience emotions that people spend years loathing in.
I like the cold earth on my bare feet because it's so cold while my brain is so warm - so tired from thinking of new ways to hide me. New ways to chase people off without letting them know that I'm scared of them. I'm scared that they won't like what's hidden under this upbeat, encyclopedia of facades. The cold keeps me settled, it keeps me from overheating and breaking down.
I'm too. . . not "too". I'm quite sane, however awfully aware of my subconcious whom runs around quite like an outlaw gypsy philosopher; romantic yet adamant and passionate about trivial blather. I adore that side of me, however I fear that I'd be ever so alone if I constantly honored it.
In closing, World, I must know. . . Do you put cement in strategic areas in my life, or am I to pave my own and break up the existing?
Love,
Lindsay