So... here's the deal.
I write insignificant and relatively vague things, and then post them on the internet, just to watch the little green line of infrequent views rise and fall.
I write and post these vague little stories and quips because I need to tell something.
I write because in a world of anonymity, there is liberation.
So this, these writings and unseen posts, are my mental liberation.
Today, Today I...
I.
I'm this kid. Right?
I sleep too late and wake late.
I like to write.
I seem to be constantly aware of the fact that what I write now? I will scoff at later.
I will degrade it, I will render it futile, emotional, impractical, but above all; ugly.
I am so terrified by the emotional crippling I have been brought up to expect, that to feel emotion, to write it, to actually acknowledge it in the most cliche of fashions... I find it ugly.
I find myself ugly, in that respect.
So, I'm young, I'm afraid of emotion, and sometimes wander into an almost autistic state of mind.
I have degraded and taken apart every aspect of the delicate things, and turned them into science.
I have taken love, for example, and reduced it to nothing, absolutely nothing but chemicals and evolution.
So, when I find myself lying in silence listening to someone breathing in their sleep, and being unable to let go of the smile that lines my face, I am a pawn of my own degradations.
My scientific opinions catch me in the night time.
Sometimes, they catch me when my head is burrowed into his shoulder, and I only press my head in further.
I sit here, and, may I tell you?
Every day the degradations of my cynicism and past hurts degrade the imperfection and, in honesty, purity of what it is I am so fortunate to be, this very second, experiencing.
But it is not because I don't see it's value.
It is because I can't believe it could exist.
It is because I can't believe any living thing could care this much, regardless of whether you're beautiful or ugly.
It is because I feel that what is so so good, must be chemicals and nothing more.
But, I cannot deny what it is I feel.
I cannot deny there is no other person I wish to hold.
I cannot deny, it is his eyes, and not another's, that keeps me still.
I cannot deny the reality of this.
For I have done that, and it does not fit.
My head cannot deny the tangibility of their touch, their skin, their voice, and the effect it has upon my pulse.
But most of all, I cannot deny the tangibility of louder heartbeats.
And it is things like that, that draw out my cold scientific protection, and render the sweet things to jokes.
But.
I cannot deny, as much as my distaste holds me from saying the cliche of all; How I feel.
It is a marvel, is it not?
You're brain conjures one emotion, your heart physically feels it.
I didn't think that was real.
I thought the words, "Heavy heart," were just easy lyrics and poetic nothings.
But no.
Within my chest, hidden behind a cage of white bone and blood, lies an anchor, that sinks further and further every day.
Sometimes within elongated kisses and lingering breaths, that very heart feels as if it is drowning, without lungs to take in air.
How very odd, is it not?
An organ that needs not breathe, feeling as if it could drown, living inside a once cold and icy being.
And so, I sit here, and I type, unsure as to the unease resting under my skin, seeping into the anchor tied securely to my heart.
For the past two days, an unexplainable sadness gripping me in the silent moments now bringing me to this; a meager attempt at finding answers within an answer itself.
I cannot explain it, nor can I find it's answer or cause, however, the further I write, the closer I feel to the root of my unease.
Funny, is it not? Within an attempt to alleviate sadness, a heavy anchored heart was drawn into the equation, despite my own personal claims that it had nothing to do with this seemingly unexplainable state of self.
Even funnier that only one face was brought to mind as each word was set down.
I fear my heart has realized something before my mind could even comprehend it's existence, or even possibility to exist.
And so as the realization dawns, it only descends further, drowning ever more within itself, and another's.
And within another's.
Ah, I have said it myself.
The anchor falls further into an ocean, for fear only that it will reach the ground all too soon, and become lost among the sand, never to have called out the echo of it's thud upon the ocean's floor.
But I fear telling him I love him only to be met with an expression of remorse.
