The problem is I never loved myself, not really. I loved the concepts and ideas of what I created but not the substance. Stretching out towards the artistic spoilers and clinging onto some notion that someday, somewhere-Some place in the notes of prophetic words and actions I’ll find myself. In actuality, I’m right here. I’m here skimming through the future chapters trying to make sense of the brokenness, the inconceivable conviction of careful circuits of another’s life. Playing martyr to any circumstance that would turn sour. Little did I know that as much as I thought I understood, I didn’t. My mindless fillings of what I thought I meant were just clouding truth. The physical existence could not be summed up to a page or film. There is no conclusion, there is no mean. It is just what it is, things happening just to happen for someone else. Be that as it may, it does not service me into loving myself. Nothing, it’s nobody’s fault. Faults are nowhere because people are everywhere. Everywhere doing things trying to justify detachments and exploitations of a temporary being. They don’t mean it, just trying to momentarily find themselves. They have to forget you to remember them. Leaving you by the wayside to recover what they have stolen. Thieving your secret parts of the self you yourself have not discovered. They have stolen the path you have not taken just to claim it. Say they have been there and then they leave you feeling empty because the path you didn't know that was there, is now imprinted with empty, forced in, footsteps.
The weight of a million heavy sighs and tears will not be of use. The sadness literally follows you and pound by pound it opaques you to a point of a half a person. Half a you, you didn’t know existed. In the end, it’s you. Your heart may belong to someone else, but it is a false security. I am not bitter. Fallible, erroneous, unsound-That’s what everyone is. We all feel we deserve the hurt, the pain, the ache. We lie. We falsely give.I am not bitter, I’ll say it again. I understand the reality of my half a being and welcome it. With it, I am not so bright eyed, fumbling into what I think life should entail. Being half a being, a used to be, a scorned and burnt out heart, shows tales. Tales of how I tried to ridiculously love myself through loving another. I laugh at my silliness, of how I fell deep, and allowed mistreatment. Your combats slowly delve you into being a half clinging onto the fictitious belief. None of it really matters though because at the footnote of it all, I am still battling the abusive relationship of myself. It all ends up with the “I”. In always looking forward to the meaning of the present, I was never present for the present. Leaving me never there, not really. I was talking but not really speaking. Listening but not really hearing. Just going through the motions, never really belonging. I realize this now. How pathetic I’ve been living my life. Like it has a definitive purpose to something or someone. Anything or anyone but me. But that’s just pitiful isn’t it? Pinning my existence on something or anyone else but me. This time is now, this time is for me. Revitalized and awakened by every static energy in the air of now, I breathe it in and let it seep into my pores. I am here and I am there. I am working on the love of there and here. No love will be given freely anymore just to be wasted, My love will be used. There will be so grateful for here’s love. I am finally giving up on being ten paces ahead. How naive of me to think I could if I didn't even know where I was before the ten paces. Let it be known, let it be screamed upon the lowest valley that no more-I am yours no more. And by yours I mean the temptress depression and regret.The seductive self pity and negligent. I am mine.
Created: Nov 13, 2011Document Media