I believe that by giving problems a name, they tend to manifest themselves and therefore become impossible to get away from. If I remain in quietude they always disappear with enough time. But sometimes they bloom like flowers in my lungs and in a very safe, very soft space I can open my mouth, and they just fly out, like whispered fireflies. When I write them down I can transmute and excoriate them til they become just stories.
My perception of beauty and love has changed.
Sincerity and tenderness are beautiful, kindness is beautiful. Listening and not just hearing is beautiful. Observing and not just seeing is beautiful. It is necessary to remain open and looking for glimpses of the evocative and profound to be beautiful. Happiness and self love are strange new things to me, maintained with great delicacy and awe.
It is necessary sometimes to catch sight of someone immaculate, and exhale, without wanting to grasp them or own them.
The most beautiful and unconditional love is letting things roam wild, and always allowing them to come home without discernment. That’s radical love.
The familiar rigidity and protective layering I built falls away like silk.
I am learning to no longer glamorize people who hurt me, or fetishize my pain because it makes great art. I gave up tying the fragments of unkind people with my unwavering heart strings, quantumly bound to their holy wars.
I felt a combination of blissful euphoria and deep premonition in my chest. He didn’t feel unsafe or unkind, but there was still an apprehension in my vulnerability, having come from people who couldn’t manage the obscenity of my world.
Sometimes it is safer not to tarnish memories by prolonging relationships. Expectations and emotions are so fluid, and memory can be tarnished by reality. For that instance in space and time it was perfect.
I wonder if his universe is comprised of whispers of me when I’m not there, in license plates and shop signs, coincidences that aren’t coincidences, just echos doused in my name. I wonder if hes sincere, if he has the capacity to see me- really, see me, or if I exist in spectrums of colors that he can’t quite reach. I wonder if I am safe in feeling the depth in him, or if I am just intoxicated by his sporadic evasiveness . If I am playing with fire, if I am letting a tired game enrapture me. The intensity feels familiar, like everything is happening simultaneously. Lightning from a congruent lifetime, or a hurricane, thrashing, brilliant and warm.Like I am with the sky I was built from. It shapes me into something softer. Even with holes and missing parts, he aims for my heart with near perfect agility. I want to build a celestial clinic around him, immortalized by time, comprised of the stars, suns and nebulas that remind me of him, because his spirit is too bright for his body,