repressed self indulgence, bubbling forth

I may have listened to this too many times tonight.




There was a time when I wished for something deep and wild. Something that would take me and break me and build me again into something realer, something that matched how I felt inside. I dreamed of feeling, connection, kindred, soul-melding beauty. I drifted through the days wrapping myself in fantasies of being beloved, being needed, being cared for, being recognised. I wrote it all the time. Embarrassing.

Adolescent fancy.

But at least, in the midst of all my self-loathing and doubt, I believed there was something there inside of me. And I hoped. I dreamed of possibility and potential made real. I spun a beautiful world, I was more than me, I was everything I felt I could be. No more blushing, babbling, crying, shame. No ‘I want to have sex with you but I don’t want to go out with you.’ None of that. Me, made real.

Of course I never found it.

No romance, no communing, no magic whispers of truth apprehended or escape from what I looked like. As is life. But it dribbled away, that hopeful knowledge, and left just enough for me to regret what was left behind.