Waves. They crash. They produce sounds so mighty. They emit power, structure to their finesse. They do so singularly, alone. Within a family of others. They are never alone.
People surround me yet … I hold them at a country length. I feel the need to have somebody there because an existence by the self lacks worth. Unless something significant can be borne from it; a novel, a blog of truth. It’s hard to put oneself in this predicament. It’s tiring me out. I can see in the bags under my eyes, appearing too early, a life of excess nestled within confinement. It’s the meeting of opposite ends, with nothing in-between.
I miss the hustle of friends. I play witness to my fear of loss. A loss of which I completely urge. I take people on in circles, every so many years I’ll enjoy life with a certain set of individuals and then they pass. Only know it’s too difficult to let go, what with the beady eye of social media forever reminding the best times of my life.
The fun was never fake. But perhaps, to them, I was. I am. To the world, who knows me? Who do I allow to know me?
A sultry thought caresses over me, like silk sheets filled with a honey voice of reassurance. If I don’t love myself then who will? Sometimes I love myself, other times I think I’m developing some form of social disorder. That could possibly be my own mind though – you know, as they say, you are the result of your own thoughts.
Tiny tragedies play in my parents minds. They still love each other but it’s just too late. The tears that roll down her cheeks profess the first time, a revelation of truth.