Crisis and opportunity
His face is so beautiful - like an angelic child, pouted lips like a brat. But his smell and his hold are so securing, I melt into him because I adore him.
I had such concern for the way that he would look at me, with intense sadness, yet relief because someone was paying him the attention and the care that he never received as a child. Why was I so magnetized to that feeling? Was it the power? Was it genuine sympathy? Was it even empathy? His random need for small things, little things that he was urged to do, because his mind was somewhere else, feeding his reminiscence for something I was not.
The disapproval on his face, that widened wry smile that was so sarcastic, it ends with the click of disappointment. Only trying to protect my innocence, only trying to deceive his own feelings of jealousy and hatred. The frustration was a deep restlessness that might one day explode and kill millions.
I am scared because I speak of the demons that come out when I am drunk with alcohol, like a thick wall being broken down and the underfeelings come out to play. The next morning is full of regret and embarrassment - abject humiliation BUT only when I am troubled. But now the demons are different. When I am drunk with loveliness, I am out of control, but only slightly, my instincts amplified, yet not enough for me to feel regret. But the next morning, my demons haunt me, as if there must always be something to think about. Because I am restless, not as happy as I thought I was, and because I am unsated.
The things that you feel like you should be least worried about, they creep up and surprise you. But your conviction remains the same, because it is stable and rational, not subject to the seachange of emotions. Is that how one grows comfortable? Comfortable in their own filth - exactly where they vowed they’d never stay? You become lost in a world of unrealistic possibilities and in the echoing sound of a quiet whisper ‘what if?’ But they are only daydreams, that slip away more quickly with age. Your childhood gone, your demons remain, but your innocence is less able to bridge the gap.
That feeling of naïve friendliness pervades my persona, I want to be loved, I want to be needed. But when responded to in different ways I remain truly friendly, yet - are my actions too leading? Even with all the disclaimers tacked on the front of every move, are they telling me something that even I dare not to think? I swim in an ocean of doubt and fear - fear of the unknown. How can I not know myself? But ah… I know myself all too well, I understand the deep cunning of my id and ego, plotting away so things slip under the radar of mummy and daddy superego. Why must I torture myself so?
I am positive that my feelings were genuinely simple last night, but my dreams betray the lie where I want them to lead. Yet when I reason to myself, I reason to myself, I rationalize to myself, over and over. It cannot be, the feelings I have are those of an immature little girl, spoiled rotten. This is the result, I am never happy, but now there is no agent to blame for the way that I cant have, now there’s only me. The way itself, even, as unrealistic and impossible as a fairytale, the feelings so ungrounded and inconcrete that they float around my mentality feeding my insatiability.
I had such concern for the way that he would look at me, with intense sadness, yet relief because someone was paying him the attention and the care that he never received as a child. Why was I so magnetized to that feeling? Was it the power? Was it genuine sympathy? Was it even empathy? His random need for small things, little things that he was urged to do, because his mind was somewhere else, feeding his reminiscence for something I was not.
The disapproval on his face, that widened wry smile that was so sarcastic, it ends with the click of disappointment. Only trying to protect my innocence, only trying to deceive his own feelings of jealousy and hatred. The frustration was a deep restlessness that might one day explode and kill millions.
I am scared because I speak of the demons that come out when I am drunk with alcohol, like a thick wall being broken down and the underfeelings come out to play. The next morning is full of regret and embarrassment - abject humiliation BUT only when I am troubled. But now the demons are different. When I am drunk with loveliness, I am out of control, but only slightly, my instincts amplified, yet not enough for me to feel regret. But the next morning, my demons haunt me, as if there must always be something to think about. Because I am restless, not as happy as I thought I was, and because I am unsated.
The things that you feel like you should be least worried about, they creep up and surprise you. But your conviction remains the same, because it is stable and rational, not subject to the seachange of emotions. Is that how one grows comfortable? Comfortable in their own filth - exactly where they vowed they’d never stay? You become lost in a world of unrealistic possibilities and in the echoing sound of a quiet whisper ‘what if?’ But they are only daydreams, that slip away more quickly with age. Your childhood gone, your demons remain, but your innocence is less able to bridge the gap.
That feeling of naïve friendliness pervades my persona, I want to be loved, I want to be needed. But when responded to in different ways I remain truly friendly, yet - are my actions too leading? Even with all the disclaimers tacked on the front of every move, are they telling me something that even I dare not to think? I swim in an ocean of doubt and fear - fear of the unknown. How can I not know myself? But ah… I know myself all too well, I understand the deep cunning of my id and ego, plotting away so things slip under the radar of mummy and daddy superego. Why must I torture myself so?
I am positive that my feelings were genuinely simple last night, but my dreams betray the lie where I want them to lead. Yet when I reason to myself, I reason to myself, I rationalize to myself, over and over. It cannot be, the feelings I have are those of an immature little girl, spoiled rotten. This is the result, I am never happy, but now there is no agent to blame for the way that I cant have, now there’s only me. The way itself, even, as unrealistic and impossible as a fairytale, the feelings so ungrounded and inconcrete that they float around my mentality feeding my insatiability.