An epitaph of sorts for all that I have been- and fear with the fabric of my being- of remaining. It is a frostbite fire pit, being caught between people you love as people and those who love you on pedestals. I fear now that I am doomed to an ideal, purely because of my fastidious nature. I conform to pretty pedestals and the fall from any and every one of them is deep and damp.
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
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