If, such interests you, let’s play:
I feel like an unescapable sensation of being too much or never enough, taking up too much space or nothing at all.
I have an insatiable urge for creating, tamed by a tone deafening fear of trying.
You will find me to be destined for nothing other than wrong times, wrong places, and wrong people. And I will beg to call it fate then plead and pray for the contrary.
But if I do manage to stumble upon a pair of eyes that could only gaze upon me, I will break their heart after spending so long handcrafting them a new one.
There is a fine line between self-sabotage and self-defence and somehow, I have managed to indulge only in the former.
I will run away from the only place I could call home, then wonder why I feel so alienated between hollow souls and busy streets and open doors.
My bones will break from the cold air of a strange northern town, but I will label it as resilience, because that’s what I was taught to do.
I rebuilt a stable home and called it Recovery, called it Sobriety, and was only met with soft tones and kept promises.
I used to wear a mask, but now I don't play pretend.
I am learning to unlearn the things that I’ve learned. And it feels a lot like freedom.
So what am I, precisely?
A paradox, you might say. A disaster trapped in between fragile bones and a canvas for skin. An attractive force for conflicts and codependency.
The perfect conduit for addiction.
An idea of an idea. An introduction, or a cliff hanger. A random character, an identity tossed between a room full of writers and then never put on paper.
The creek of an eroded chord, the echo of a misplayed key.
A pendulum with no recognition of the last time it reached equilibrium.
What God forgot to complete on the 7th day. What God chose not to complete on the 7th Day.
So here I stand; you can label me as you wish, but through it all, I would only use the word art.