Why am I like this?

If you expect something from me, I will automatically care.
So when you tell me you were waiting all night for my message, I will feel bad for falling asleep. Even though I owe you nothing, barely know you, have all the right to sleep whenever I want or need to (especially seeing as I struggle with falling asleep). So I should be happy I dozed off so relatively easily. But, you showed you cared and that it bothered you. You articulated expectation, you were disappointed by something I did (or didn’t) that had no real direct correlation or connection to you. I will still care, feel bad, guilty, inclined to fix it or make it up to you. Did I mention I barely know you?
Why am I like this? (and seemingly only I in this whole wild world) Because I know how it feels to care and not be cared about, to grow attached a little too quickly and cultivate rapidly expanding expectations based on a needle point sized probability of reality. I have been mistreated, dismissed, disappointed, led on, kept in the dark, lied to and cheated on so much and many times. Still I will always (regrettedly to my own ego and self loving properties) believe in the best of people, hope and pray for the best in their lives, give another chance each time the former expires, let people cross lines I’ve chalked down in blood, keep giving more of myself even when I clearly receive nothing in return, pretend I’m okay with what happens while I’m dying inside. Why? Why am I like this?
I am care. The very definition of sensitivity. In both its light as also dark magic. Now I only have to learn how to apply this all to myself. And as I tred the silver silk line that is this process, I slip every other step, back into familiar default patterns. Two steps ahead, always followed by one backwards. Still moving forward, though, through constant setbacks. Crawling through layers, scratched by the cracking of surfaces I break through and rise up from, ready to fall all the way back for the slightest sign of care from anyone who’s willing to show it. Not out of desperation for attention, rather despair for the acknowledgment and existence of unconditional love. Not because of weakness, but from the urge to mean to others what I wish I could mean to myself.

No Returns.

I will never not love you
It’s been running through my mind
For days and months and years now
I guess I have to begin to accept
That you’re just part of my soul
Running alongside my blood
Together with every heartbeat
Through my tiniest capillaries
Pulsing subtle and softly
In the background
Never too present
But absolutely always there
Fed by each ounce of oxygen
I manage to breathe
While I might not be aware
Each time I give it a glance
I catch myself looking away
Startled by my own thoughts
Of hoping for another chance
This no longer makes sense
So much time has passed
So many reasons convincingly
Brought us only further from each other
Yet safely buried underneath
My deepest layers of emotions
You are still the truest love I’ve ever felt
As I realize in cautious observation
How I always pick the roughest path
Only grow the hardest way
I will still calmly walk along
This one way street
Leading always to
But never from you
All my heart slowly learns
Love doesn’t do returns
Through giving or gain
Pieces will always remain

Confirmation or Confrontation ?

It’s easy to look away and drown yourself in distractions.
Why not for once be courageous and face the confrontations,
regardless of their outcome

What’s the worst that could happen ?

You hurt, you learn.
You suffer, you grow.
You break, you heal.
You die, you won’t be alive to remember it anyway.

So what’s the big deal ?

Go on and dive right in, head first, your heart will follow. Your soul is immortal but your body wil decay anyway. Might as well take that chance.

It could lead to self destruct, tough luck. There’s not much you can’t recover from, all your past struggles bringing you right here are already proof of your strength.

It could also lead to a plentiful blossoming of your self, your awareness, your power of happiness. There’s so much more to gain if you’re just willing to give it a try.

Losses are part of life, standing still is part of death.

Your choice. Confirmation or confrontation ?

Pure

Sand in my face, salt in my hair
I left my worries right there
Buried them on the shore
For the oceans to take anywhere
It has no use anymore
To hold on to them or stare
At them endlessly like before
I have so much more
To give and learn and share

Of what I want and need, I’m sure
All I have to do now, is dare
Forget not to breathe, restore
See clearly why and how, I care
And love to the fullest from the core
Because I deserve what and where
I’m going and belong to live for
Nomatter if it’s wrong, right or fair
As long as my intentions are pure

The ability to write…

Periods of time gone by, I only find myself now in the right place and time and most importantly in the position of ability to …write.
It’s hard to specify what makes it possible for me to write. What are the necessary factors that play a part in the proces of writing.

First of all, a certain sense of peace and rest, calmth and emptiness. Creativity and inspiration get killed by an overflow of information. Both visual as auditive noise can murder the flow of a thinker, a writer. Anything breaking the chain of concentration has to be diminished and eliminated in order to keep steady a stable progress.

It often occurs that one finds him- or herself in the right place and time and even ability to write a piece. The concentration flow has been sacredly kept save and isolated from any interference or ‘contra flow’. The creativity and inspiration seem close at hand, but somehow remain unreachable. Writers call it ‘writersblock’, although this term can also refer to not having any creativity or inspiration or whatsoever at all. I call this ‘flow lock’. All the right features are in place, the mental space filled with nothing but emptiness, calmth covers the senses. A river of creative cognition and intellectual inspiration is running through the mind rapidly. Until it hits a barrier, a large iron watergate. You can feel the creativity and inspiration bubble up and burst into the gate. But there seems no way to let it loose. Like a mime player, in an imaginary box. An enraged lion in a golden cage. A dancer whose legs got amputated. It feels like a handicap, a disability. Failure.

Failure means, making an attempt that turns out to be or become unsuccesful. Failure does not have to be taken negatively. Failure can be seen as the road to success: after falling off your bike a hundred times, the hundred-and-first time you manage to stay on it! Failure can also be seen as a process of learning: the experience you gain through the many failures you make, can be or become useful for other purposes. Generally, people link failure to a feeling of guilt. They somehow feel bad because they weren’t succesful. They thought they should or could have done better.

I think this sad ‘shoulda coulda woulda’ story is nothing but an excuse to the easy way out. Failure is the first step towards success. Without failure, success would not exist as it would not be distinguised as such. Without failure, every attempt, every action, every plan would be a success, because failure would simply not exist. And to be honest, not every attempt, action and plan is worth a success. Failure is necessary to learn, to grow, to be humble and greatful, to stay grounded and keep relativating. Seeing things in the right order and perspective clears the road to success. Practising and improving yourself continuously is the one purpose of failure.

Not being able to write, makes me able to write. The imaginary box, the golden cage, the iron gates and the amputated legs make me search myself thouroughly. It makes me investigate my mental skills, put them to the test and stretch their limits. The disability makes me ambitious. Ambitious to be able, be stable, be capable of doing what I want. Putting my creativity to product, injecting my inspiration into a project. Making dreams come to life, by keeping dreams alive inside. Reality begins and ends in the mind.

One can mentally kill or give birth to, neglect or nurse, destroy and destruct or enjoy and conduct any thing. And any thing mentally can be put to reality, through writing alone. Writing makes any idea, any concept, any lingering figment or thought a concrete thing. To read or learn, wonder about or teach. Language by itself, is the key to reality. And the writer…
The writer is the goldsmith that forged the key.