Surreal
Guilt at the indulgence of confidance. And rightly so. True guilt for forbidden fruit. Last time, I tell myself.
Yet, it was surreal and comfortable. The rythmnic breathing no one dares to do together because it's deafening in comparison to the silence sitting next to it, introverted. The strange feeling of understanding the most fundamental process in another fundamentally similar being. Taking time, when there isn't time. But taking it anyway. Time is what we make of it, choose it to be for us. The merging of imaginations through thought put into words. The subtle, strange, silent, seismic acceptance of the other in stages. In parts. Like a huge computer program that has to be installed bit by bit. Not thinking about shortcomings, for once, but thinking about truth, reality, subtle lies the world feeds us that we identify and throw out like some sorting cabinet.
Naming, labelling, concretizing rubbish- because it's important to me. It is, you know. It's my trash. It's my baby. My inner world emerges, and it's scary and embarrasing to have another human share it- what if they ridicule me? What if they laugh at my ideas, thoughts, remnisces, fears, foolishness. Unfounded fear- it never happened tonight. The swirl of two rounds next to each other merging in color, merging in taste, merging in likeness. It was scary, exhilarating, a sugary rush.
But we are all absurd at some point. And rather in a nice way.
Sleep tight, flick.
Yet, it was surreal and comfortable. The rythmnic breathing no one dares to do together because it's deafening in comparison to the silence sitting next to it, introverted. The strange feeling of understanding the most fundamental process in another fundamentally similar being. Taking time, when there isn't time. But taking it anyway. Time is what we make of it, choose it to be for us. The merging of imaginations through thought put into words. The subtle, strange, silent, seismic acceptance of the other in stages. In parts. Like a huge computer program that has to be installed bit by bit. Not thinking about shortcomings, for once, but thinking about truth, reality, subtle lies the world feeds us that we identify and throw out like some sorting cabinet.
Naming, labelling, concretizing rubbish- because it's important to me. It is, you know. It's my trash. It's my baby. My inner world emerges, and it's scary and embarrasing to have another human share it- what if they ridicule me? What if they laugh at my ideas, thoughts, remnisces, fears, foolishness. Unfounded fear- it never happened tonight. The swirl of two rounds next to each other merging in color, merging in taste, merging in likeness. It was scary, exhilarating, a sugary rush.
But we are all absurd at some point. And rather in a nice way.
Sleep tight, flick.