So fragile and deceiving
that some don't even know if they want it
And others are sure that they do not.

And so strong must it be,
That pull from some darker place
The allure from the other side,
to make some give it all up..
Let go and float away.

It only takes a second.
You are here,
You are gone.

Nothing is the same,
But the world still turns.
21 grams lighter.

Shakespearean wondering

Writing to the sound of this.

I started tugging at something and now I feel overwhelmed.
Digging deep invariably means discovering more than you bargained for.
I found a door that opens up in every direction and everytime I open it..
- I find myself a little more, a little different.

And I wonder how other people make it fit?
All these things, intrinsically different, that I am.
Must I choose?
Make a carefully calculated persona of some bits and pieces?

Or can I cultivate all those quirks, hidden passions, strange contradictions,
- all of them, at once?
Does that trap me or free me?

Nothing outside the text

I like to write 'you', when I really mean 'I'
What is that about?
You is generic, but is that really what I mean?
Am I escaping responsibility for these words, these thoughts? 
(I don't even say "my")

The second person allows me to detach from the text.
Shifting the focus, letting me elaborate without getting in the way.
Taking a step away from these feelings that could be anyone's, really.

Only, they are not. 

Perhaps Derrida was right; il n'ya pas de hors-texte, but there's much more in it that I let on.

you won't be around to see them bleed and break

This thing
about you.
That you are here, but always gone.
That everytime I try to see your face I can' t remember what you look like
and all your pictures have been erased.
Your number was deleted and I pretend I did not memorize it.

There you are,
suddenly from nowhere and you say things,
Things I'd rather not hear, because
I recall your face and I dial your number.
Nobody's there.

out of sight out of mind can be true,
if you want to.

But we need this,
The destruction of the other, the mutual calamity that rips us apart,
every time but,
like boomerangs throws us back into each other.
Always like this and never any other way.

Looking for meaning inside the data.

I see it happen,
rewind, slow-motion, repeat.
Only it did not.

I see it happening,
fast-forward, next chapter, picture perfect.
But it won't.

Something about being the exotic spice. The extra flavour that improves, but is not indispensable.
The tree that is not large enough to provide shade.
The flower that will not grow and therefore must die.
Something about being painted into a corner, stepping out and getting my feet soaked in the paint.

Something about being all these things, and yet nothing.
And I ask myself why I search incessantly for meaning?

emotional miscalculation

"He frowned at me as though I were an inelegant equation,
necessary, but cumbersome.
- A bore to manipulate."

It is a tiny shift of air and it takes only seconds,
the transition from possibility to impossibility or worse.
If you don't leap you can never know, but at times the fall is messy and ugly.
And you feel ugly and messy, too.

These things cannot be calculated, there's no problem to be solved, no answer to be found.
There are lit up moments and the rest is guessing in the dark.
Reaching out, hoping you end up with more than you started off with.

There are some passive aggressive metaphors I could use,
and while passive aggression has been a usefool tool in the past (see here) ..
I'd like to think I am more mature now.

reprise: Perception

What am I, if not what I think I am?
I imagine and I try to become. I change, evolve (and regress.)
Yes, I contradict myself,I contradict you; I contain multitudes.

In a day I am ridiculed, patronized, celebrated and envied.
I am understood, misunderstood and slightly overlooked.
Possibly an opportunity, but probably a hypothesis floating away, passing by.
Like a piece of wood at sea.

I see things as I am, not as they are.
But how do they see me?

Comfortably free.

Phantom pains? C fibre firing?
What about absence of phantom pains?
Does that mean there was nothing there to begin with?
If I cut it off and I feel nothing, what does that say about my judgement?

Yet, I've been holding on to that pathetic little rope's end for years.
Everytime it was about to slip through my fingers I grabbed it harder.
Never asking myself why it mattered, never questioning the importance of keeping something so broken.

And when I'd open my hand, I'd be bleeding.
Because inside that small stump there were thorns.
The more I held on, the more they pinched my fingertips.
I felt no pain, all I knew was the adrenaline that comes from fear of losing.

I never stopped to think whether I could really lose something that wasn't actually there.
And in a flash, the illusion was gone and so was the tiny rope along with its thorns.
When I open my hands the wounds have healed,
There is no pain, you are receding.

fear of eternal recurrence

If I accept the premises on which our coexistence was based,
does that mean I am inevitably doomed to end up in the same place?
To take the same baits, furiously spit them out and then go back and ask for more?

Or can I ever escape the road taken?
That seductive undergrowth that wanted wear.
Yeah, I wore it. Or it wore me.
We wore each other out.

And here I stop, half-way through this analogy that makes no sense.
Voiced thoughts are non-rigid designators.
Especially mine.

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