Raz
Bluelighter
All my truths are emotional, which means I literally don't know me.
The years haven't been kind to me, but nor have they been unkind. Like an aged dog whose eyesight is fading they've limped along loyally, nuzzling me with affection when they can find me at peace. Sometimes I wanted them to leap to my defence and they only growled weakly. Sometimes I expected that they would lay down and die, and instead they surprised me with an ecstatic burst of puppy energy.
But a puppy grows old.
I find myself looking at the world through the filter of my heart. Its stringy fiber is hard to peer through, and I wonder how everybody else gets the puzzle so right. All my pieces fit, but I'm not sure they fit the right way. I'm not sure if somewhere somebody is shaking their head sadly because I'm getting my puzzle so wrong. But all my truths are emotional, and puzzles aren't my forte.
There would be a kind of irony if apathy were my forte. If dispassion were my passion. It would be kind of fitting if these things were revealed to me by Greek Drama wave of the hand, the Gods entering from off-stage to reveal all. The God in the machine when really, I've never been very good at machines.
But romanticism only finds the answers in movies, in reality all it's good for is frustrated writing. Every cynic is a frustrated romantic. Every relationship is a frustrated independence. My present comes from a frustrated past, and my future?
My future brings time for any old dog to die, and maybe death is the most emotional truth of all.
The years haven't been kind to me, but nor have they been unkind. Like an aged dog whose eyesight is fading they've limped along loyally, nuzzling me with affection when they can find me at peace. Sometimes I wanted them to leap to my defence and they only growled weakly. Sometimes I expected that they would lay down and die, and instead they surprised me with an ecstatic burst of puppy energy.
But a puppy grows old.
I find myself looking at the world through the filter of my heart. Its stringy fiber is hard to peer through, and I wonder how everybody else gets the puzzle so right. All my pieces fit, but I'm not sure they fit the right way. I'm not sure if somewhere somebody is shaking their head sadly because I'm getting my puzzle so wrong. But all my truths are emotional, and puzzles aren't my forte.
There would be a kind of irony if apathy were my forte. If dispassion were my passion. It would be kind of fitting if these things were revealed to me by Greek Drama wave of the hand, the Gods entering from off-stage to reveal all. The God in the machine when really, I've never been very good at machines.
But romanticism only finds the answers in movies, in reality all it's good for is frustrated writing. Every cynic is a frustrated romantic. Every relationship is a frustrated independence. My present comes from a frustrated past, and my future?
My future brings time for any old dog to die, and maybe death is the most emotional truth of all.
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