There is so much bubbling around in my head, a storm of adventure and love and longing and power and I can’t share. I not this person of intrigue and I don’t always enjoy the holding, but I hold it. I don’t want to be the person on the inside. I never wanted to be alone in here. How could I know what I’d be handed or how that would change my view.
Oh be careful, so careful what you wish for. I don’t want to know and I can’t say. I’m excited, yes, of course. I can’t pretend I don’t dream of this constantly. I want to read everyone’s mind. I often joke about wanting to crack people like a walnut. I wish for it endlessly. I wish for it more with some than others.
But it doesn’t always make the world a less lonely place to be let in. Sometimes it makes the world echo more. The pressure of silence weighs heavy. I don’t always know what it all means and I can’t untangle it so easily, bouncing off the walls of my skull, coiling. It feels wondrously and terrifyingly inclusive.
It’s sick to feel joy at what it means to know, to be on the inside.
And it’s sick that it eats the lining of my stomach.
It’s twisting in my hands and tearing my palms, a dubious gift.
But I can take it.
I am so fucking honored by trust.
I am so blessed by love.
Anyone can say I love you when you are fun and light, can speak the pretty words you know I crave. Anyone can kiss and anyone can cuddle and anyone can make a tollhouse cookie when I’ve been a good girl and I please you. And all of these I treasure. I crave. They are precious to me. The kisses and smiles and touches and graces of easier love fill me.
But tell my soul within my soul that you love me. Trust me. Bare it and know that I can take it. Be who you really are in the dark dark dead of night. Ask me to help you carry it. I will. Show me that you really do understand who I am.
People are always saying “Why did I tell you that?!?”. I like to say “everyone tells me their secrets and I keep every one”. It is an act of love to trust me. If any basis for promise dies-the promise doesn’t die. It can be a fetish to honor trust. I’ve talked about my opinions or thoughts of those that I was upset with.. shared what I could without breaking trust. I’ve told some people I would no longer keep their confidences and shared everything after but not before.
I pride myself with foolish eccentric pride to hold the trust of those I love. It feels like a deep confirmation and a beatific present. There is no artifice. There is no ulterior possible in trusting someone. It is unequivocal and utterly genuine to let me in. You let me hold your trust because you honor me with your love.
And something else. A wisdom was shared with me.
Maybe it IS a strength to admit your weakness. Maybe it is a thing to respect to be the vulnerable. There are those that appreciate it. Maybe it’s harder to own what you really are and want and feel and need, to not hide behind what you should be or what you want others to see, to be utterly real and present, and really you. Maybe, just maybe, there is wisdom in the mess. I have to admit I didn’t look at it that way, but maybe that is why I love my wise wise loves.
Maybe, just maybe, those that you love see it too. And they trust you for it.
All around me, those that matter draw close. I’m not perfect. And you can trust me.
“What happens when people open their hearts?”
“They get better.”
― Haruki Murakami
“The strongest love is the love that can demonstrate its fragility.”
― Paulo Coelho
“To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.”
― Criss Jami