I miss the days when we were younger, so much was easier back then.
I never really considered what it’d be like if things had worked out differently, I merely see all the instances in which my life diverged, from what?
I don’t know… but there was a division none the less.
Oh what it was like to be a child.
I think of those days often, days when my dreams and aspirations were right before my fingertips.
I was so close I could taste it.
Self-defeated by doubts, planted within me by those who sought to spoil my fertile soil, and nurtured by my own hand…. fed by my own hopes… carelessly cultivated by numb hands attached to blind eyes.
I used to muse that I only ever felt truly alive when I was so close to dying, and yet I’ve come close far too many times.
Lately I feel numb to that sensation, “have I really ever lived?”,is all I can think.
I’m scared to write how I feel, these esoteric poems and writings are a safeguard, I’ve long known this.
They are the floodgates to my insides.
My catharsis is such:
“Who am I protecting?”
“Myself from myself”
And in this notion I realize exactly why I’ve held myself back for so long.
I wonder though, if I am not foreign to depression and failure, what exactly am I holding myself back from?
Am I really that scared of happiness and success?
Perhaps I’m scared of losing it all, even though I feel I have nothing to lose most of the time.
Is it irony that I’ve always had a phobia of heights? Well, it was never the height that scared me so much as the fall.
I could be low to the ground and feel the sensation of vertigo or at the top of a highrise and feel safe.
Perhaps my fear was of a lack of security.
Things are often so simple, it’s life that makes it complicated.
Have I always been so transparent?