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. Continue reading