Blood inside

Rarely have I felt as adrift.

And I had such a good run there for a while, despite the little sandbox dramas that flared up from time to time. It was good. Things happened, feces and fans found one another and everything was vibrant. I liked the fevered pace and the feeling of not knowing what'll happen next. A surprisingly addictive way of toddling through the days, though mostly in hindsight. A different kind of disappearance at sea.

Carefree is another word for inconsiderate, I admit, but it sure beats playing the patsy. Like a lovestruck child, I've allowed myself to be overpowered by the desire for a human touch at the expense of my own integrity and pride. This form of vulnerability is alien to me, yet it hasn't stopped me from opening myself up for a few brand new puncture wounds. I'd like to say my habit of sticking my neck out is a quality worthy of praise - nay, I'd like to think that. But it's not. It's stupid. Stoo-peed.

There is a melody playing in my head, but I'm trying to do it justice by thumping the keys with boxing gloves on. My heart is planted on my sleeve as firmly as ever, but it sways my stride and makes me lose touch and tempo. It makes me unpredictable.

I express myself with the subtlety of a pink battleship as I stumble over my own tongue to get from here to the next disharmonious moment. Being passionate and being restrained has become somewhat of a barren land peppered with pitfalls of tension, awkwardness and stuttering punctuation. It's ground I'm traversing through with idiot savant efficiency like a headless chicken let loose onto a minefield. I don't know where I'm going, but the journey sure could be a bit less of a walk of shame. Well, at least there's consistency.

One would imagine that if your heart isn't exactly in pristine condition, it wouldn't come as such a surprise when the person you've exposed it to begins to backtrack in unison with your advance. There is logic there, symmetry even. I should be able to see it. But no. Deep down I expect the action itself to warrant a favorable outcome, because deep down I live in a fantasy land where candour is rewarded for its own sake. Where the word Veritas tattooed on my arm has absolute, resounding relevance. Where the birds sing and the heavens shine as gems of truthfulness escape my lips. But my timing is off. I'm in the wrong key. I'm the village idiot mumbling through Danny Boy, none the wiser.

It's ironic. I'm becoming more and more cautious in social situations and surprisingly substantial parts of me have fallen under lock and key - a development I'm honestly very sad about - yet it doesn't seem to deter me from donning the crown of a most royal fuck-up whenever the opportunity should arise. And believe you me, such opportunities seem to present themselves like an overgrowth of weeds in an untended garden.

I exhale, words appear, something becomes exposed. A small shock overtakes me. My immediate impulse is to swallow every syllable back into my lungs and undo the fact that I've just rendered myself skinless. Instinct takes over and I forget the world isn't all flesh and teeth. The facade is better, because the truth is violent. Antagonistic. It steals the sound from your mouth and punches the gusto from your gut. If it's all the same, I'd rather spare you the torment. And in doing so, spare myself of... other things.

That's the theory anyway. Practice? Well... See the headless chicken analogy above. I have a strange craving for companionship, to understand and be understood, yet I'm growing increasingly terrible at expressing it. It's nearly comedic.

My eyes dart nervously around the room as I attempt to escape my own mind, hungry for yet another round of rewinding and reenactment. Thanks, I retort, but I already lived through the embarrassment and discord. No need for a rerun. But I can't help myself. A cold spike begins its advance up my spine and we are underway. The buffoon revels in the memories of his botched performances upon the soiled stage, bringing the proceedings to a close with a quiet monologue of having nothing to show for it all, least of all wisdom.

I'll manage of course. Find a way for all the pieces to fit. I always do. There are more than enough vessels at my disposal for me to express and expose without expressing and exposing. Much like I'm doing right now. I need to do this not to implode. I understand that now. I see it in a different, harsher light than before. A colder truth, but also brighter. Purifying one's internal clockwork isn't a science but an art - which, I assume, is why creativity is its most effective form - and you can never know what else you'll wash away in the process, but I'm quite sure I'll still recognize myself as I pop out from the other end. The real question is whether or not this search can be completed alone. I'm not exactly sure that's the case.

Having put it like that, I'm suddenly less bewildered by these appetites. I'm missing something. That entails the desire to search. A quiet touch of something genuine, without trade. Something real from someone real, someone who isn't terrified of bearing a bit too much without being silenced by fear or restraint. Something I can call both shared and mine, mutually inclusive.

Yeah. Something like that.