Shifting my weight for 10 minutes. Delaying the unbearable excitement of what will come, what will happen, will I get out? Its December and its getting dark again and my mind is working overtime, overtime from all the Greek tragedies Im reading these nights, all the novels and poems and essays, the old classics youre supposed to have read to call yourself wise. You can quiz me on Petrarch, Medea, Shakespeare or Dante, I know them all, and Im sorry but theyve all gone wrong. Dumb glorified men, writing words about love and life as if they knew. As far as Im concerned they didnt make it out alive either, so Im sure as hell not going to go to them for advice, and love isnt a Sunday morning with roses and wine. Its the stealing of your breath and insecurities and uncertainty and it hurts and Im scared but still, still, Ive read Rumis Book of Love ten times over and I think Im falling in love with love a little more every time because it makes my heart beat. It makes my blood flow and I dont feel like throwing myself out of the nearest window, anymore, at least not right now, tonight. Its something about the constellation of certain thoughts, certain words, certain syllables, and it just explodes right off the page and makes its way to my chest and kind of just finds its home there. Its like the filling of this great void Ive carried inside for so long. So Im reading, because thats what you have to do, and I search for myself between the lines, the definition of what it means to me, or at least where to start looking because Ive looked everywhere real and Im nowhere to be found, so I thought Id give this a try. Or actually thats the only thing I can do, because Im tired of going everywhere and nowhere, looking for something I dont know what it is, and I think its actually right here, in me, somewhere under all this dead skin. I think Ive travelled too far and too fast, when the answers are all within. When the greatest journey is under my eyelids. So I will keep throwing off this weight, getting rid of whatever stands between me and my insides, because I need to get to my bones. My time is running and I need to find the answers, or at least the right question. Ive been looking up, aiming for the point of your finger, but I forgot to reach for what your finger was pointing at. I stopped too early. So, Im reading, and I hope that other people do too. To teach yourself. To learn yourself. Or, actually just because I wish for someone to share some thoughts with, some thoughts I have on Franz Kafka and his fathers lack of belief in his talent, because I, Charlotte Eriksson, can relate. Or maybe we could lay awake at 6am and talk about the possibility of star-crossed lovers and if Phaedra should have kept quiet about her love for Hippolytus or if you too could have murdered someone because he no longer loved you back, like Medea, because I, Charlotte Eriksson, can relate. Or maybe we can drive to the ocean and figure out why Hamlet couldnt kill his fathers murderer. Was he scared?Was he dumb or too wise? Or why Dante never reached out to Beatrice because maybe they were star-crossed, meant to be, predestined. Maybe they were meant to make each others time disappear and burn from the way only lovers can look at each other, leaving scars in form of fingerprints, whispering comfort like only spiritual passion can. But then again, would he be able to write all these beautiful lines if it wasnt for the unbearable longing for her, for something real. For someone true. The dream and the possibility of real, spiritual love? And how everything is more magic when you dont know if its real. Until then, I will keep reading. I stumble home like the drunk Ive become. Closing the door with the darkness inside, counting my bones to make sure theyre still there, that I am still here, and until I figure out what Im supposed to do with this potential Ive been given. I will keep reading. CharlotteEriksson
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 20:27:20 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015