I’m afraid to write in here. Funny how I used to see “type”, as if it were a mere technicality, but I suppose I recognise also, that my heart, and my mind are “writing” rather than typing. I don’t know, maybe it’s a romantic notion, the difference between writing and typing. Where writing seems like a warm, personal feeling, and typing, feels more like the cold, harsh confines of work.
I might be wrong.
But back to the issue at hand. I’m afraid of typing in here. I’m afraid of completing something, like this. This is small, but even when it’s completed, and I publish it, it’s there, finished, flawed and all. It’s not perfect. I’m afraid to finish writing the perfect song, or finish that lesson plan. I’m afraid of making those decisions that come in the heat of the moment, when the inspiration strikes, I’m afraid to let the instance of that magic finish it’s course.
And if you could see what I see, it’s the supernova of a big bang, an entire new universe is created in that instance, and I’m afraid to let the dust settle. I see the creation of something as beautiful and majestic as a spark, as a pale, crooked pretense of the singularity. The purity is lost, everything else is hand-me-downs, and how could anyone be satisfied with such a notion.
I don’t know if that’s whats troubling me, stopping me from closing the deals, the loose ends, the sparks of inspiration that strike me every now and then, and I just let them fester, like infected boils on your skin, they seethe with pus and blood, yet at the point when they burst, it’s still a glorious shower of gunk.
Maybe I’m afraid that I can’t live with my decisions, maybe it’s the unknown, the things that I cannot control, the reckless falling into someone else’s arms, of comfort and security. Maybe I just cannot allow myself that respite, because ultimately my heart has failed to love and trust. Maybe there’s something wrong and broken inside me. Maybe it’s the things I’ve seen, not with my eyes, but the mind’s eye. Maybe once you see, you cannot unsee. Maybe I just won’t let myself fall into the madness again.
Is that how every heart feels? Like nothing is certain, nothing lasts forever, nothing even matters sometimes?
And all this doubt in my heart, stems from some sort of unknown fear, of what I can’t really wrap my head around. It eludes me, this mind-killer, and I know not what incapacitates me so. I don’t know if it’s some sort of craving for acknowledgement, that I’m not a fuck up, or that I’m worth loving, or if it’s supposed to be my heart realising what my mind has been saying always.
Or to understand, that I am only human, capable of hurt just like everyone else.
To the gypsy that remains faces freedom with a little fear
I have no fear, I have only love
- Gypsy, Fleetwood Mac