Fibrous connective tissue is trying to develop over this deep, deep wound from the past. It has not completely healed, it has left a mark on my soul.
Did I even love her, or just the idea of her? Have I not truly let go and that’s why I still have a vast gaping wound at the center of my being. Is this why I keep love at a distance. Does anyone want me, like the raw unperfect real me? With all my sadness, loneliness, brokenness, beauty, madness, and endless hope and dreams. Or do they just want a warm body? Only to hold an idea, a lesser version of me, never to want or even know the reality.
Doom to be truly alone. No matter what label we stamp on it. No matter how much I try. No matter how much I hide. Never again can the connective tissue develop so that I can be whole again.
Does it even make a difference? Or is all of love a projection? A Super-placebo, amplifying, and accelerating perception so that it can never truly connect to reality. The catch 22, the more I am truly me, the more that no one can ever really understand or connect with me. The more I cut open my heart, and let out all the raw visions and feelings, the further away everything seems to be.
I feel like I’m stuck in the same sad old movie. Stuck in this bare room, alone, with a dying flower at the bedside, writing letters to myself by moonlight. How long do I have to keep this illusion going on? Can I just set these pages to a flame, so they never touch the eyes of another soul?
Most things in my life are broken, as well as my heart. The lessons of my life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue on my soul and dead skin of my dreams...
