It hurts my heart to choose between what I love and what I love and also desire.
My heart and soul are breaking under pressure.
They pain from the stories I have told them that are untrue.
They cry for love and worthiness.
They cry for sweetness.
They cry for power, strength, confidence and protection.

My mind is shrouded in mist.
My calls echo from every direction.
My footsteps trail on hollow floors.
My eyes strain to see what I hope for.

I love him deeply. I am hurt deeply.
I want harmony.
I want honor.
I want it from him. I want it for us.

He makes me question everything.
He gives me visions of a beautiful future in a tropical, lush, fertile Earth.
He gives me words of affirmation.
He gives me words of criticism that sear into my chest like a hot blade.

He tells me its all in my head.
He tells me I am dead weight.
He tells me he doesn’t get any fulfillment from me.

He tells me he didn’t mean it.
He tells me he believes in us.
He tells me he sees a future with me.
He tells me I’m too sensitive.
He tells me he’s a happy person.
He tells me I am the only one for him.
He tells other women that they are beautiful and sexy.
He saves the images of their naked bodies.
He tells other women he wants to take them out.
He tells other women he can’t wait to meet them.
He tells other women he loves the way their mind works.
He tells other women things I want him to tell me.

He tells me that all these things should show me something.
All of these things should tell me something.
All of these things have something for me to try to understand.
He doesn’t help me to understand. I should see what is to be understood.
But he tells me I am the love of his life.
He tells me its all in my head.

He tells me he crafts jewelry that he buys from other people.
He tells me he’ll honor our relationship then he tells other women to send him their bodies.
He tells me he understands.
He tells me to blindly trust him again and start anew with a blank slate.
He tells me my insecurities weigh him down and hold him back,
because he is a happy person who takes care of himself.

He tells me he knows the truth. He tells me what the truth is. He tells me its all in my head. He tells me I am insecure and I am dead weight. He tells me it’s not how it seems. It is never how I perceive it. He always knows the truth. He always knows what is right. I don’t have a truth. It’s all in my head.

I love him deeply.
I love and desire peace and harmony.
I don’t want to choose.
I want to run into the lush tropics with the man I love and cultivate fertile ground and sweet fruit.
I don’t want to choose between happiness and the man I love deeply.
I don’t want to walk away from these hopes. I want it to be easy.

But it’s so hard.
I’m hurting so much.
My heart and soul are pieced with a hot searing knife.
My mind wants to worry about why I’m not enough,
why I’m so sensitive,
why I’m so weak,
why I’m so insecure and doubtful.
My heart wants me to know that I am strong,
that I am compassionate, that I have a secure future that I can trust.
I waiver between the crossroads wondering which one will lead me there.
I don’t want to choose one and leave behind the other.
So I sit with this heavy heart, the burning in my gut.
I sit with it and I allow myself to feel it but try to remember I am not a victim.
I can have, be or do anything I want. So I am patient.

There’s a black whole.
It’s collapsing into itself.
It’s deep, powerful and omnipresent.
It pulls everything in with unimaginable force.
It survives because it consumes.
It consumes because the universe is woven out of giving fabric,
of tenderness,
of forgiveness,
of desire for balance
of wholeness.

There’s a black whole.
Contained within its mass is everything that has ever crossed it,
all of the light that could not escape,
stories of natural order and chaos held in stone,
written in craters and debris.
These stories tell of natural order and chaos,
an inevitable fabric of consciousness.
Stories of natural order and chaos only read when observed
and reflected upon by a conscious mind,
quickly to be consumed and erased
By a black whole.

Through awareness, we bring stories to life.
We project our meaning
from our small collection of natural order and chaos.
We observe to understand and we tell stories to cultivate meaning.
We are so afraid to live without purpose -
to continue on in awareness without being valuable,
without having some important role in existence.

We become divided over meaning.
We are afraid for our truths to be invalid.
We are separated from meaning and consciousness through the pursuit of self-preservation.
Through natural order and chaos
we divide, multiply, create, destroy, and seek to understand.

We are in a black whole
collapsing into itself.
We are deep, powerful and omnipresent.
We pull everything in with unimaginable force.
We think we need to consume to survive.
We consume the giving fabric around us,
of tenderness,
of forgiveness,
of desire for balance…

but we will never be whole so long as we believe it must come from the fabric of our universe. We are a whole, already, divided over meaning, afraid for our truths to be invalid. We are separated from meaning and consciousness through the pursuit of self-preservation and struggle for escape. Through natural order and chaos, I choose to create
giving fabric,
tenderness,
forgiveness,
balance
and wholeness.

I choose to cultivate rather than consume,
or be consumed.
Because all of my light is struggling to escape the event horizon,
where lies pain and sadness,
my stories written in craters and debris

from natural order and chaos.

fullmetalfisting:

Jk Rowling: “dumbledore is rollerblading in every scene. He rollerblades everywhere and hasn’t walked in 30 years. It is never mentioned because it wasn’t relevant to Harry’s journey”

the is more to the flurry of names flashing by

on insurance paperwork and case files

and

toxicology screenings

attorney letters

DNS codes

So many stories that are someone’s nightmare.
Someone’s secret.
Someone’s 

After I get home I often wonder for a while
what their wildest dreams are
who they love and who loves them
what makes them laugh