Sitting

It's quiet, side from the inconsistent tapping of fingers on keys electronically connected to some exterior world, as if the means of typing would reconnect the mind with others somewhere beyond our corporeal existence. Before me sits a deflated globe, its beans compressed where feet once rested upon the surface. Deformed, it still shows the continents as they perhaps once existed: boundaries drawn with colored distinguishing marks, names that may have shifted since production, and the sense of peace and wholeness that doesn't exist.

It looks real, even in its fictitious state. Kind of like my heart, battered and bruised and broken. Feet have tread carefully and still found their mark upon that flesh, that muscle, that unprotected and open fountain of emotions. It is deformed now, just like the bean bag foot-rest showing the world. I'm sitting on a couch, pulling myself inward to protect myself before my poetry class where emotions usually run higher than normal for school.

But shouldn't they be free to spill forth? That could mean crying, wailing, shaking, and yelling... Which I believe would be completely inappropriate for a classroom setting. Perhaps in front of a microphone while reading one of my sentimental poems... but not amongst students who are definitely younger than me. Why do I cry? Because I'm in love and couldn't admit it to myself until it was too late. Well... perhaps not too late; there exists hope while time and space is shared between me and the other. However, the time I can give coincides with how much my heart can feel and fight and fly. Florence and the Machine put it beautifully, like I wrote in a previous post: "Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release, wish for falling through the air to give me some relief because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace. it's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief." Falling into this place of love was easy, effortless, effervescent... but I've hit a ledge and am clinging to it's stability with bloody fingers and weakening resolve... I feel like I'm coming to a moment where I must decide whether to pull myself onto the surface and start climbing back to my 'senses' or to release and continue falling...

Blood is dripping down my arm, warm and sticky. I'm intrinsically enjoying the sensation of feeling because it's been lost to me in so many ways. To return, even like this with painful reverie and seemingly unjust circumstance, is a welcome relief. I'm not a monster, at least I can still feel this way for someone, something, and myself. I have not destroyed myself in previous times.

I can't resolve this, sitting in a computer library looking at a destroyed world while reflecting about how I feel and want to feel and desire. Only action in one way or another will bring some resolution to this state of limbo I'm curbing with introspective writing. Soon, however, I'll have to figure out what I'm doing with my body: giving it to the air and falling into the arms of this man or pulling myself away and distinguishing this possibility as merely minuscule emotional input. If only someone could help...