Babel 17

5 09 2010

In the babel of languages that these days were, I hadn’t time to think too much. Sometimes to not think is good, sometimes is impossible. Sometimes it’s just such a big part of me being anxious or shameful of something that I forget the bigger picture: I’m alone and alone I can’t take care of myself properly. This I should keep in mind very clearly and more often.
Of course with that comes a very simple problem and it’s the problem of finding the right person to achieve a better state… and with that comes then the problem of giving to this person the access to my soul (because to do that is a deep act of trust, because being open is the only way to be free)… and for that I do not have the key. As far as I am concerned my mind “clicks” properly only when finds a good amount of trust and the sweet illusion to be understood. Whenever this mix is absent, even for a little bit or even simply because of my personal doubts, the whole castle crumbles to dust easily and quickly.

When that happen, when my willingness to serve dries out itself, I find myself in this position with these feelings I had in the last days: I feel inadequate, I feel wrong, I feel week, I feel pathetic. The pleasure at that point fades, the chores become a burden, playing becomes boring or even too silly and everything becomes difficult and too challenging to undergo.
I become suddenly apathetic or sometimes even openly rebellious because the thought of giving oneself to someone, completely, is too heavy to bear and is ultimately fruitless.
Shame plays a big role in these periods, suddenly what was a pleasure – however might still be a pleasure during the very moment of ungeroing it – becomes another sinful trait to add to the somehow-too-long list of my despicable tastes.

I wish I could understand why I can’t just enjoy myself without worries honestly, why I have to spend hours and hours trying to convince myself I am not sick or, even in the case I really am, that there is nothing wrong…

I spend time somehow torturing myself with negative thoughts, clearly trying to become more pathetic than I am and trying to stop myself enjoying what I like.
The fight is constant and exhausting and there is nothing that I can do, nothing. Sometimes is quiet and sometimes is powerful but is always and ever painful. It’s me fighting with myself a battle I cannot win alone.
I need to be saved from myself, isn’t it? Such a romantic stereotype.

Even now, writing these words, I’m afraid. Afraid of digging too much, afraid of not digging at all. Afraid of letting myself go, afraid of the changes my life will have. Afraid.
Always and ever afraid. Never quiet. Always in pain.

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