He looked at me, held my face in his warm, steady hands and whispered something beautiful. Words that lined up delicately to produce a meaning that I can’t exactly understand, but I can feel some place in the depths of my boarded up heart. A place so deep and guarded that the intrusion of these words make my insides twist and turn in complete pain as if the whole contents of my body will spill out of my mouth.
I struggle to swallow the warmth that my body wishes so much to disengage. “Words are nothing but words.” My brain chimes in at an attempt to calm our vessel. Brain is right. Words are a pathetic form at an attempt to convey the feelings that none of us can comprehend. So if these are just words, why are they evoking this kind of response?
Why do my eyes well up with warm salty liquid when I think of his kindness? Why does my fragile heart seem to swell bigger and bigger when he embraces me against his warm, sturdy chest? Or why do the beats skip up when I hear gentle words? Why do my insides struggle to stay inside? And why does my whole body cower both from fear and from pain when I think of how undeserving I am?
How do you explain that you are a person that enjoys being naked in the woods?
A person that puts on act every day to “fit in” to what is considered normal around her… How do you explain that? The art of being a cliche… it’s what I’ve become. A poet, a writer, a painter, a photographer, a dreamer, an artist.
As I entered in the final moments of my 8hr travel adventure earlier in the week a man said to me, “I think you are childish.” I receive this criticism often, and light heartedly. My brain tries the best it can to understand logic and what society considers to be responsibility, but it can’t wrap it’s coils around it. It can’t fathom the thought that all I was born for was to make money for the sole purpose of paying debts. What it does understand however is beauty. The feelings a work of art can evoke. The tenderness of human compassion. Those things, this brain has no problem with.
I have been raised to believe that this is a fault. Not just within family, but within the world. The potential that others see in me is used as a weapon in hopes that through criticism and by making me question my worth, that somehow I will “buckle down” and live up to this potential. But can a being thrive forever in a play pretend?
So I am here again. In the depths of my thoughts on life and love and what it means to be happy and fulfilled. “You are the personification of art.” Words. Somehow full of feeling still… I want to find my own mixture of colours to paint my life.