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[Mar. 7th, 2008|09:33 pm] |
To explain myself is the most intimate thing I could do. Go deep. Go deep. Go deep. I've never been able to get down to the root core of my being. Melancholy is easy. Happiness is cheap. True pain is the fabric of humanity. I avoid it.
Do I have intimacy problems? I don't like to explain myself. I feel that if I was to put myself out there for the world, to lay everything bare, I would have nothing left of me. I would become public property, and I would have no control. I like being in control. I like to keep things to myself. I don't want to be the property of the masses. I don't feel that they are worthy.
The artist leaned across the table this morning as she insisted that I was the cause of the world's problems. She was only half joking. I wonder where she draws inspiration from. She seems to have none of the problems she blames me for. Pain is inspiration, after all. Many times I have found myself frustrated at those who have a false sense of understanding. That is partly my fault - they would understand if I allowed them to. So is it also my fault that the world is imperfect? Or is it just that I make the imperfections so clear?
Pain itself is perfect. |
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