Paper
As I'm staring up at the moon tonight, I think about what we're exploring. I'm trying to imagine the pain that is coming as well as how he's going to take my past experience and origami it into something beautiful and intimate. He has this way about him. The origami thought leads me to think of an adage that was a lyric in a song that holds meaning for me.
When the paper's crumpled up it can't be perfect again
Yet ... he has a way of smoothing that paper out then caressing the ridges left behind until you actually feel proud of your scars. Not in a toxic victimhood type of way, but it's more in the way of "this is me and it's okay to not be perfect as long as I don't just give up". There's something about the hope it instills that is indescribable.
Then, my thoughts drift to other things- things spoken as if the whispers in my mind had been transmitting outward unbeknownst to me. I just blink rapidly in the darkness of my thoughts and the darkness outside tonight. Finding common threads stitching us up and being surprised when I ought not to be, I'm aware there are certain things I just knew without any confirmation. Maybe I'm shocked at actually being correct. I long since convinced myself certain inklings were a delusion- there's no way we'd have that in common because ... yanno, I never had a legitimate 'because'. It is a pattern to assume I'm wrong about a thought. He caresses another ridge in the paper and I fold
Then, the voyeur in me had risen up. He didn't seem to mind, actively encouraged it, it seemed to me. It felt he took much pride in his cherished property and I enjoyed participating in my own appreciation of what belongs to him. But that wasn't all I admired, it was their connection that made things more beautiful than superficiality could wave a wand at, and it was that beauty which made me writhe in lust. I use 'lust' but the word implies 'want' which would imply 'envy', but 'lust' is the best term I have; I'm not envious- quite the opposite which I also don't have the term to use. It's beyond a mere "happy for you" because what I feel isn't so flat. I feel something glorious, a joy of sorts. I dunno, I feel almost as I celebrate it..?
When I finally got back home, I sat on the porch. The streetlights are dim and the only light is from a few signs by the highway and a cell phone. I'm just here thinking, tapping away these words in a Note app. It's a clear mesh of poetic and bumpkin, this writing of mine. Kinda like me. It's authentic and raw just like my emotions; they're spilling all over the place right now yet I'm not worried about the mess at this moment. I don't always have to have my emotions under tight control, I can just feel them even if they're scattered and don't make much sense. I don't have to make sense. The places we're poking at, there's going to be a lot that doesn't make sense, I should get acquainted with that concept now. And I've got people in my life that don't make sense to me, perhaps I need to learn the difference between trying to understand someone and trying to make sense of them. He caresses another ridge, one I didn't expect
There's no real appropriate ending for this writing, at least, not one I'm satisfied with and I'm sure I'll struggle with the title the same.
My favorite line ever read
The sadist took what he wanted from you.
The intensity of this single sentence. Happy sigh.
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