why does it feel that way? whenever i share something personal, that it almost feels as if i am cutting a part of me off and offering it to others. i recall a certain scene in the movie adaptation of "the joy luck club" wherein they show an old custom of serving meat soup to an ailing parent, using one's own flesh, as an ultimate gesture of respect and honor. it feels like that, slicing a bit of my soul, maybe just so i can share something real, maybe offer a bit of my life to others, in the hopes that they can use it to help themselves.
talking about myself was painful in a way. it forces me to uncover things i would rather leave hidden, face things i would rather ignore. i never liked being hypocritical, since i detest hypocrites, so i strive to be as honest as possible. it's an exhausting process that often leaves me dazed sometimes, after-effects of emotional hemorrhaging i guess. but despite it all, i believe i do what i do because it is good. because i believe i can help. because i believe when dealing with matters that involve one's soul, you need to use the sincerity of a soul to connect with it. nothing else would do.
and in doing so, as i connected with my friends and hoped to unravel certain things, i realized something. as i was putting myself in the position of other people, trying to live their experiences and hypothetical situations, it came to me that i... i think... and i shuddered at the thought.
my eyebrow twitched. i bit my lip as my heart sank a bit. i suddenly felt like i needed to mourn. i have been wasted, in pursuit of something i willfully knew was unattainable. i ran after the wind, wishing i could catch it one day, yet knowing it will never happen. i fell in love knowing i can not go all the way.
the vanity of feelings, the real lesson.
i think i'm bad for people.
1 comment:
Our words are distillations of our being. Sharing them will always entail a certain abandonment of ourselves, a partaking and an offering to whomever we choose to share these words with. When sincerity is so bone-deep, often the very act of imparting our narrative and experiences becomes too painful, and cathartic. Like a wound that must be bled to feel its pain.
Without the blood, the wound would be an ignorable bruise.
Our emotions are pages of the book of our life, and in every failed love, or attempt of it, we tear out pages to burn as effigies to that lost ardor that fleeted into the mists. New people come, and pages are drawn fresh to write their stories into, but despite the copious writing, rewriting and torn chapters, the book remains. Soiled, used, filled and butchered, with worn covers and loose leaves, but still existent. Persevering.
Dreams are meant to give us hope, a direction, an objective. That elusive utopia that keeps us going, intent and romantic. A dream that fate continually contests, and reality heartlessly fails.
But no life would be worth experiencing if not for the promise of better futures, though imagined realities they may be.
Be well, Jamie. It can only get better.
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