Let them in

It seems like I’ll never be what I wish I was. What I know I can be actually. Cause it’s right there, I feel the two (three, four?) trying to become one. The change could be emminent. If only I could let it happen. I try. In the silence of words written to be told.

Let’s use another word. Change is worth shit. Become? Evolve? Ah fuck… I got it. Mature. No, no, no, does it have to be that one? It means way too much. Aren’t I done with this? I don’t want to be mature. About anything. It shows the way to so many things I know I do wrong. That I enjoy doing wrong.

It’s not about responsability. I’ve been responsible all my damn life. It’s about me and the others. So many blogs I read, so many people saying they are not a people’s person, they are not sociable, they actually hate people. And I can totally identify. But at some point, doesn’t it affect my whole way of being, my ability to mature, to be part of life?

Nothing relates to me in the outside world. I can’t relate to anything or anyone. Yet here everything is about me. And it’s so easy to believe that this is the truth. I mean every word I write, yet I can’t communicate my needs out loud. I can verbalize my anger, my despair, my insecurities, yet I can’t bow my head and cry in my living room.

There was a time when I didn’t exist. When all I could do to survive was to come here and write. Because I was the ghost of someone wanting to be. Now I’m too big, too real. And I’m getting smaller and smaller as each day passes. I know what I have to do. I know what my words mean. Each and everyone of them. I love them, embrace them, make love to them. I have to let them back in.