My soul is possessed by anger; my soul is fed with hate. My frustration moan scratches my lungs for freedom, but I swallow it down, sending it back into the gutter…. I know what sorrow is, I know how is to live in blackness. I was born there and even though I came out into the light, there is still darkness waiting me at home. I loved once, but warmer was the pain that came after it. I am cursed, for this I am sure, but I continue to smile, to ignore it, to live my life, because I have once tainted loneliness and I can do it a second time. I am proud of it.
I am a woman but I don’t want to act as one and for this no single man has seen me as a woman. I have never been interested in the pretty little womanhood things, I never cared about my body or how I looked or how I dressed. I am “ab” before normal and for this I don’t look around. Why should I? I have putted an end to the weakness and become a fighter, an opponent, an Animus soul.
I don’t trust people, they are cheaters by nature. I only trust my judgment and sometimes not even her; because I am a one crazy person with too many sins. I never tell everything. Not to my best friend, not to my mother or my sister. I don’t talk about my fears, or my dreams. I don’t want to be judged, laugh.
And I don’t cry, I write. I let the words be my yawl, be my tears, my torn-up feelings, I let the vowels dance for me I let the consonants sing the way I will never be able to. And still don’t think of me as a writer! There is nothing except memories and a secret door poorly named Imagination. I run to it and hide myself like there is Heaven and I am the queen who rules it. And I hide through Wonderland and let the characters of my world to discover me. I am kind and lovely, I am good and full of live, I am everything that in reality I can’t be. And I do ask myself why. Maybe because I was never loved, maybe because I am sinner… and sinners don’t go to Heaven, neither have the right to a pretty life. I say all this because my own Wonderland is nothing more than a fake Heaven. Like plastic for leather like nylon for silk. Just a replacement. And even for this little corner, Reality punishes me.
They accuse me of living in a fake imaginary world; they think I am worthless, that I’m weak, that I don’t know what real life is.
But I rise this question to you all: isn’t the imagination’s seeker the one who knows reality better as he is the one who runs from it?
Alex, dear, world was never fair towards those who know how to dream. What hapenned here? What made you put down with so much hate this words that now seem scars on this beautiful blog? Who tormented you? Who mocked you for your deam?
ReplyDeleteStep on them. They are nothing more but copy-cats, strange fellas that like to play-pretend.
People are not made to be trusted. The human nature is two like a puppet with many faces:you never know if the face, feelings they show to you are real or fake. No, people are made to be annalyzed. Nor trusted, nor loved. Heh, but then again, this is an utopic idea. 'Coz the dreamer seems to fall to often in love and tends to trust the wrong people.
So, going back to the topic:Alex, who was the little devil that hurt your dreamy soul? 'Coz if it would be possible, I would crush it/she/he. Dreamers should be protected. 'Coz they are the last ones that can save reality from it's doom.
So don't be sad, ok? And smile. I want to read yet another post, a happier one, one brought to us from the WonderLand...
I do not know why, while i read your coment i felt a bit The Poet's voice. This year i promised i will reaveal myself a bit more in my texts, and this one was written right before an argue that I had with somebody. I feel this text like a reproch for me being the way i am but also an acceptance. I am a dreamer that is for sure... I don't know how my next text will look like, but it seems that i'm covered in all sorts of feelings and it will be a shame not tolet them out. From pain, art is born.
ReplyDeleteI don't think i have ever been so sincere with myself. Not veen in Undressed.
Thank you Mooney, for your care.>:D<
Yeah, that's awfully true:art is born from pain. But even so...I still wonder, why do I hear myself through your words? Why do I see my hands writing those lines? I will not say that it's my alter ego, 'coz she too inocent for this. No, it's me. But why this feeling? Maybe because we're born under the same star?
DeleteIt's good, to let a little bit of your true self to be reavealed to the others, I mean. But not all. Not all of you. Keep yourself a 'secret' from the crowd. Coz it's the only way you'll keep your colors on. If not, you'll turn grey and slowly fade away.
Here is a song about True Colors http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPn0KFlbqX8&ob=av3e .
ReplyDeleteIt's not only you who has found herself in my words. Who knows... maybe i'm becoming a poetess:). But at least i am not alone, we are not alone