withdrawal comes in a variety of personas. it could be sudden, or painstakingly planned. but our energy isn’t an investment fund. yes, it can fluctuate, but the hero will have a tough time trying to stack their coins. we enter with a full heart, but exit with one more robust.
i always feel guilty when bombing the bridge and quarantining my experience. this release happens in conversations, their larger relationships, and overarching goals. no matter the level, i give in to clasping storage locks.
to zero in on one, let’s examine a conversation. exchanges go pleasantly and smoothly until a moment of vulnerability arises. all of a sudden, there’s a daunting choice — share or close down. there’s a quantifiable amount of times in a month that i project thought into building a network. realistically, why work on it if it ain’t broke? noviceship is efficient.
but the complex mosaic joining hues of contrasting people together demands a fatter paycheck. just as i crave homeostasis, i long for a rich spread of dependable characters, each with their own quirk and tassel.
stick out like a sore thumb. get picked up and shuttled to the puzzle of your son. what is human but a tug toward love, a busted pun, or a disappointed tongue?
highway rails blur. slam on the brakes. shift into reverse. hate the change despite its curse. anticipate prey. shapeshift into an inside-out shirt.
positively, the simplest mode of existence is to shed skins and trade shells until you realize there’s no need for either. we’re in a civilized society that, within certain bounds, can acknowledge and adapt to arguing viewpoints. on average, the cashier, working a much different path than you, won’t shiv you with their ID badge based off dietary supplements.
it’s adorable to dream of that x-ray vision. in reality, my empathy, compassion, and wisdom aren’t compatible with a social utopia. i won’t expect judgement-free conditions if i cannot meet them myself.
when i see white cars, i sneer at its spoils. i search laughter by others for the calculations of its mixture — fake and real. warm embraces are checked for tempature with a sharp meter felt by both. the caution introduced by me escalates the defenses of others to form a collective, cutthroat strategy game where eye contact is analyzed, mannerisms are matched up, and pauses are taken as stops.
instead of a spider-webbed heaven, i’m bending a spider-filled land to meet our own.
trust is a two-way street. respect — mutual. connection — bimodal.
however, in my twisted reality…
trust is an illusion. respect — unbalanced. connection — a flailing conduit sparking house fires.
i feel like i’m in an underworld of our sophistication. how can i return to my origin, the origin of us all? can we all collectively go there, like the alienated population in The Leftovers? to clarify, it has nothing to do with the people surrounding me, who are as impressive, beneficial, and charitable as Mother Theresa.
everybody’s worldview is custom-made. mine just begs for a body shop at intermittent intervals.
repair and maintenance are two separate trades.
– D K T