The False Wisdom Of The Wounded Heart.

I woke up this morning (too early on my day off)
With all this buzzing in my head. This frustration at allowing my self to look weak when I am not.
Allowing myself to be weak when I am not.
I'm so powerful. I tell myself as I lie there...When I'm not in Love.
Or rather, powerful in the things that do not involve the love.
Or...the things that exist when it is absent.
In other words, when I can brush it off.
Behave as though it does not exist. My mind meanders...
And I realise. I should get the fuck up.
There is this awkward paradox- Where I am unbelievably soft inside.With this invisible chain-mail coating painted on the outer layer of my skin. It offers absolutely no resistance.
Just the appearance - to me - That I am kept safe...I can be a little harsh- cold perhaps...Awkward...see.
When I'm soft, it's ridiculous. And in secret as much as possible...
The way it's generally allowed to appear is sarcastically or in any other way that makes it appear as far removed from the actual source as possible.
If someone is (un)lucky enough to see it- I note this generally means they are fucked.
It will be impossible to get rid of me after that point.
Because my shy little heart has decided they are special. Something in me has figured they were safe to let in. I hope in my best friends I fit as cozily inside the dark secret depths of their hearts as they do in mine.Hope that they know my aggressively non-violent soul would at the very least make very strong threats of violence if the need arose while doing some well rehearsed ninja stances for good measure...

But sometimes my heart is a complete and utter idiot. An anomaly occurs.
It reads some one wrong. Or perhaps, merely feels the wrong kind of love.
And I never see you again. Because I can not. Because just the thought makes my heart spasm.
I flood with this overwhelming feeling of stupidity. That I put my heart out on display. When I have always known full well, that deep within my chest is where it should stay.Hidden.Until a viewing  has been requested.
...But it's fine. This is life. The heart patches itself up, continues on it's way. a little bruised perhaps.With this foolish idea of wisdom- which causes it to be too cautious, or not cautious enough.
Too un-trusting or too willing to trust. On some search for the perfect balance of all things.
Wondering just how precarious this hope you cradle is. Just how tight are you holding onto it? (Are your knuckles white?...Do you have a strange grimace upon your silly heart broken face?)
Should you let it go? Do you need to let it go?
Would you feel some how free if you did? Or would everything fall to pieces?  

I lean back in my chair. Close my eyes
Imagine I am falling. I hear the rushing of moving air as it strokes my ear lobes.
My hair whipping upwards. It fills my whole body with silence. and peace.
But obviously...that's imaginary falling.
Maybe this explains my life long love for swings.
With each leap forward, I lean back. And the dizziness that spins my stomach...empties my mind.
And all I can do is smile.

"You're so strong" ... (I flush and look awkward, shrugging my shoulders so deeply it's like I'm holding a really tiny snake upon them that I don't want to move...)

Funny how the way I look at it- what exists in me is more about honesty than strength.
I choose to be honest. And honesty is painful sometimes. Difficult. What's so strong about that?
Strength is just it's natural accompaniment. If I were not....well,
I'd have been well and truly squished by now.
Perhaps I am strong. But isn't it more a case of needing to be- because of myself-
not because of the world. If the way I choose to live requires more strength, I find it hard to see that as something to compliment.

Anyway...I have a habit of finding things to read...when I need to read them or am some how ready to read them... perhaps that sounds like some kind of hippy hokum....I don't give a shit. If I'm walking round a bookshop and find a book misplaced...staring up at me...my knees kind of shudder.
Some of the best things I've read I've found that way.  
And this (below), put into words exactly the emotion I had been feeling. This kind of depth of joy. Of the realisation- not least as someone who has experience of depression- that some how I have managed to find a way to maintain buoyancy regardless of difficulty. That it appears depression can no longer run amok in my veins. (It has been a long long time since I had depression...years...) The effect is profound. I spent such a long time fearful that all in life was pointless as it would undoubtedly be snatched as soon as I let that fear dissipate. So I held on to it. kept myself fearful. Pricked holes in old wounds so that new ones would not be a shock to my system.
Maintaining myself at a certain level of suffering. Plunged myself into- enthusiastically almost- the darkest emotions I could fathom.As though it were an art form I was trying to perfect.
Perhaps I've wrung out all that I could, I have this deep well of emotive experience that I dip my toes in to "use" for creative purposes.
It seems now is the time for feeling to feel. Not feeling to destroy.

- "Happiness in comfort is not real happiness; when you can be happy in the midst of hardship, then you see the true potential of the mind."

- Huanchu Daoren.