'The pain goes, but the beauty remains'

The fear of a groundhog day of 'deepest emotions'

words and details and attitudes

repetition

most peculiar story I know

most authentic connection I've felt to an outsider of my family

sounds disgusting to most, to myself sometimes for that matter

but for no reason other than realistic experience, I don't think I could be loved so unconditionally again

there are other men

more convenient, more attractive, better lovers perhaps

I envision myself, exactly the way I want to be, with the perfect man, even capable of socially being with him, the lust of the beginning is luring, but it's polyester intimacy, moments between silences and gestures that just tell me I don't belong there

I don't know if I became a stranger because I am a stranger by nature or because I am attracted to the drama of being one

point is, I am eventually a stranger, and so is my lover, and so is our story

and it is so beautiful, even the pain of it

the mere ability of two drastically different people to create a language of their own

even the eccentricity provokes one's senses

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Today I feel unloved by my family

and insecure

and sad

This thing

inside my mind

so much ability to focus

and the core of focusing itself

it just exhausts my heart

and I see the most beautiful things in the world

and i follow their delicate units and it pressures my eyes and heart

my ego does not like it and pulls me out

my ego and my shrink's advice order me to be as good as those who make the beautiful things

my mind makes beautiful things but cannot put them together

my mind cannot make beautiful things when it is told to make them

my mind leaks them

when i try to catch or gather them, they snail-shell themselves into my self

i am afraid of something i will not say because i might get more afraid

i can see so many things and colour and texture than so many others see

but i cannot spill it

i'm not my family, i'm not my religion, i'm not my lover, i'm not my nationality, i'm not any other nationality, i'm not my age group, i'm not my therapist, i'm not my medicine, i'm not my friends, i'm not my self image, i'm not my music or books


I'm a piece of God

and my art that doesn't exist yet

it's kicking and screaming like a frustrated child in my mind and i don't know what to do with it but take it on roundabout rides

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