“If I never see you again / I will always carry you / inside / outside

on my fingertips / and at brain edges

and in centers / centers / of what I am of / what remains”

– Charles Bukowski

I’ve spent my time seeking for the approval of others, that sometimes I forget that we are all individual snowflakes – special, unique and severely fucked up in our own little way. I have practiced all this time to perfect my disguise. From cradle to grave and from dusk till dawn. Seasons change and the leaves bury the earth and I bury my face with all these shallow facades, all these cliches, all these – whatever.

I have buried myself many times and dug up myself more than it has done me well. The earth has grown numb with the countless earthing, unearthing, re-earthing, and re-unearthing. These shovels and pickaxes yearn for peace, for serene falling of rain, for moist windows, for roaring fireplace, for a steady hand to hold, as they scream silent infidelities against these trembling calluses that wield them.

Beads of sweat form perfect teardrops along the curvatures of my face. Rolling, rolling, rolling until it free falls upon scorched earth.
Saltwater and the great escape.
A fathom of irreparable hindsight, of failed autopsies, of lost conversations, of pieces of vanishing has been, and vacuous spaces yearning fingertips and hushed obscenities.

You know what sucks?

Teaching the heart to have courage in times when what it sorely yearns for is to falter.
Teaching the heart to practice so as to perfect its disguise.
Teaching the heart that the hardest journey it will make is the fourteen inch line from the  chest to the head.
Teaching the heart to channel longing, wanting, and feeling through self-imposed numbness, or through selective forgetfulness.
Teaching the heart to reason with the unfathomable.
Teaching the heart to accept the love it thinks it deserves.
Teaching the heart that everyone it meets can be loved – can be saved.
Teaching the heart that it is a bottomless vessel of compassion available to anyone who shows the tiniest bit of attention.

Teaching the heart that it is a mistake.

Because it’s not. (And that sucks)


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