I’m not fucking around here, I mean it. Truly honest.
The kind of truth that would otherwise seem, perhaps, embarrassing or the sort. The honesty that you have gotten so good at hiding that you yourself are surprised from what transpires from your own sentience. That we have gotten so good at.
Or is it not the exposure of honesty, but just the lack of promotion for the high, holy falsehoods? The scheme and dreamed identity that has been made more meticulous than even its own creator can often even realize. The façade, though made of and appearing all pure and righteous. The mask of many faces, dressed today just as you are. As it can every day, if is allowed.
I suggest, though bold it may be, that the times between have grown longer with your days. That we grow so accustomed. Comfortable.
But not comfort, no. Perhaps the illusion of but not the real thing. Because it takes a certain level of the kind of comfortability that cannot be faked to go bare-ass into strange lands, if you will.
But I’m not here to damn identity. Considering what I am doing, that would be horribly hypocritical. And unless we be sheep, an identity is not something that is made for us. It is made by us. The influence of such a thing is far reaching, and ever reaching for that matter. We pull from those around us. That we adore. That we resent. Those who we wish to be like. To be around. Or not around. Friends. Those who find love within, without or they in us. Those who we lay awake at night in dreams of reverie most divine. Or diabolical.
All things that are used by a self to sculpt a self. And though the environment for the genuine may not be an easy one, there always come a point. A point where no matter what disguise is put on, you still see yourself. No matter what anyone else can witness, your knowledge of the actuality is undeniable. Because you can never lie to yourself. Not really.
And why this is the topic is not because I feel a liar myself. I have before. I most certainly have, often and recently. But I do not today. I did not yesterday or before that. I would say a good few weeks now I’ve been at it. I find myself dancing more, which is one of the most honest tasks sapiens can undertake.
Yet, it is new again. Something that was only discovered as it passed. Even after. And I give tiredness the credit that is due. Why waste the energy to be what is not, when to be what is can at times, take no stress at all? Too tired to try and be anything other than what I be. And with such a fleeting resource as time, availability does not lend to waste. Or so I have come to see it.
But I still damn tiredness and the excuses that ride along with it. The weariness of note should only be that associated with the dealing of nonsense. Bullshit, to give it a name. But to be a self of at least marching towards contentment, we must never grow weary of seeking. Finding something in everything without falling totally into fantasy. Because there is something in everything. Something for everything, even if it were to be one with a bit of nothingness. And there is always more in everyone. If for nothing else, you can find a guide of what is not wanted.
But want, you bastards!
Want to live! Want furiously and persistently! Want to feel and love and dance, even if it terrifies you more than anything. Especially then. Want to want and want to be wanted. It can be done. And it can be done without toxicity. Though the traps be all around, it can be traveled.
But more than anything else, you must want to not hurt. For yourself. And for others.
You will though. Do not kid yourself. You will hurt and others will hurt because of you. They will hurt with you and for you and around you. But the want to not makes a path. It doesn’t get you there though. That you must do yourself.
But what do I know? Half a drunk stumbling fool finding himself with poetry, here and there. I know not more than what has come to pass. And has told me what I tell you.
It may be worth its salt.
It may not.
We shall see.