When I don’t write, it hurts 

It’s interesting, life. The expectations that are placed upon us, by us, by them, by we. These internal hang ups we create based on our own perceptions of what the outside want to see. Like you looking at me, thinking about what I’m thinking, looking at you, thinking about what you’re thinking looking at me. And really we are so caught in the thinking part, that we forget to look. Look at soft lines of face, awkward smile, a little distant of eye, slant of nose, rose of lips. Do you look and see the sum, or break each part down. Drawn in close to freckle or eyelash length or lopsided left mouth corner. Or well proportioned, symmetry. 
I go through periods of time where I forget to appreciate that looking. Where I become so wound up in a ball spun of my own binding that I keep tripping up on the bullshit. The too scared to tell a leader at work that I disagree, for fear of being trod on; too concerned by what I think a lover thinks of me, to see what he sees; too quick to want to cry the tears of others stories, not contain the space for them to cry the tears themselves; too frighten to try all the things that excite me, for failure that belongs to the inanimate. 
And there are times where I hold a quality of staunch, of passion, of power, where I unwind this constriction that chokes tight my heart, and accept that my vulnerability is my greatest strength. And if those who are looking at me, looking at them, looking at me, don’t like it, then that’s their loss. Because my heart is my most valuable asset. And I like to share it. 

But life, it’s real interesting, and it’s real. It throws cycles of lessons at our feet. And sometimes it takes time to undo the binding. 

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About dustforthedancers

Poet, creative, cultural and community seeder, feeder, maybe one day I'll be a leader. Of my own path at least...
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2 Responses to When I don’t write, it hurts 

  1. I love your writing, which I’ve discovered through your dad. Such insight and sensual delight, even unexpected playfulness.

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