What you crave in intimacy is what you lack in yourself. What I have lost: hope, love, want, pursuit, safeness, closeness, passion, a way of turning, home.
What follows is a theory of self.
I dream of a figure, faceless, taking my hands in their’s, looking deep into my eyes and saying: you would still exist if I couldn’t see you. You would still exist if I couldn’t hold you. You would still exist.
The self as a vessel, without which you would still be, as an afterthought. The self as something to be left and lost and found.
Look at me. Look at me.
It’s a year I can’t place in time and a place that’s too complex for a map. I am walking, towards a point I am not yet aware of and I do not know whether I will ever reach.
The self as a pursuit, something to be reached, held.
All of a sudden, I am filled with the conviction that when- if I do- I will look back, knowing something is following me and I will spend the rest of my life fearing the hand that might snake out and drag me back through the tide, my hair trailing in front of me like a black god’s whip.
I’ve become enamoured now, with the idea of throwing my self before me so that what I’m running away from and what I’m running towards are only the same.
What I am is a choice, something made. A syntax, placed inside the brackets of eternity, in which I exist as a fraction, a fracture.
The self as a landscape, ever-shifting and sharp as a season. The self as a part of yourself, fractured half, something that you define and does not define you.
I wake in a sweat.
Sweet, don’t think I won’t blur myself out, become vague and distant enough so that I can love me.
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