lantairvlea

And allow me for a moment to fall to the cryptic and mushy side. However, it may not be quite so cryptic as it is mushy.

So I've wondered to myself, especially tonight, how could it be so hard to say a few small words. None more than a syllable. Not even a handful of letters to scatter about and be blown by the wind. Hardly a word to be spoken and heard. What could be so hard?

Standing there, leaning, being held, holding, hearing those words, but feeling unable to reply. The throat tightens and words are closed out. It's almost as if I'm afraid. As if there's some irrational fear in the back of my mind. It seems to feel that if I were to say it, speak it out, let the world hear, that it will vanish. It will fall apart, break down, and be gone. Irrational and unexplained as it is, I think this is what grabs my throat and strangles the words. This is what still my lips and halts my tongue.

Fear, worry, they're there. Wondering if this isn't too good to be true. Hoping that it isn't.

Then the irrationality again. Youth, vitality, strong, independent with no need for a support. No match to be made, no half gone missing, it seeks no other part and does not recognize others as being outside of itself or within itself. Foolish, irrational thought, fighting against something wish may very well help. Tossing head and shaking mane, rearing and stomping upon the ground, trying to pull away and set back. Halting for a moment, sensing the good that might come, tentative step forward, and then snorting and backing again. Over and over again. It makes no sense. I want to make sense.

He looked at me tonight, told me things. It was . . . I felt . . . to say the least, I cried. Do I deserve this? How have I earned it? Perfection? Does that exist? Is this it?

*Puts "Home" by Duncan Sheik on repeat, burns incense, and heads to bed.*