I knew I was in trouble the moment I caught myself saying aloud the things I only thought of when I let myself write about my feelings and share it to the world when I opened up to strangers to talk about how I feel. Now I’m consumed by my own words, taken aback by what seems to be a prequel to a novel.
I always wondered what it would feel like when all the puzzle pieces fit together, how it would feel cozy snug against your skin, and laugh and cry and be silly and childish and imperfect without thinking if it’s all just surreal. I dare even ask if this imagination would ever be as vivid as a well-written prose, but it’s an answer that I’m not ready to hear.. possibly not ever.
You caught me by strong winds and currents, but you’re also the calm after the storm that captures me in the midst of bewilderment. I want to swim away, but this whirlpool only pulls me deep into a maelstrom.
I’m taken by the best part of me- lost and baffled- asking if any or all of this can be reversed, or worse, if it was all momentary. I’ve always wanted to know if it’s a better choice to explore what’s out there than to lose what’s right in front of me, but I knew weighing my options will just make it harder and harder.
They tell me to stop over-analyzing and enjoy everything, like it’s okay to let my guard down, be vulnerable, just feel, and take it all in. But from my more anxious self, I hear constant whispers telling myself to listen to this questioning ally I grew accustomed to. And somehow, letting the walls down feels like I am naked more than I’ll ever be.
When you’re used to being fiercely independent, and suddenly feel like it’s okay to be vulnerable, it somehow doesn’t end that way. Your thoughts, the only thing that used to make sense, starts to crumble on its own. And you’ll be lucky if someone, despite all that, would still see the perfection in the mess in you.