No longer am I curious about stranger’s faces, their stories unwilling to be told, unwilling to listen to mine. The energy needs to be there, for curiosity’s sake, or what are we here for? It’s been a long year, an even longer winter, and I feel myself changing from what was; accepting parts I didn’t know were there, rejecting others I now see as stale. I’m changing as my words flood pages. Maybe my senses are overwhelming to some, but others understand and will ask for continued clarity through the mazes in my mind. It can be exhausting, but if I’m willing to do the same, it stands to reason someone would be willing for me. As for the past ones, the ones who left or had little capacity to understand; I wish them well. They’re not for me, and I’m not for them. Hanging onto a hope of changing with one moment of clarity is foolishness, they shouldn’t have left in the first place, and if they would, could’ve told me why. Maybe then we could have corrected the downward spiral and found higher altitude again. That’s not how it works, we have scripts in our minds and hearts that prevent from brutal honesty, vulnerability, companionship. It’s too easy to miss someone, to think of how they peered into the deep wells of my soul; lonely and aching for them to stay. Easier still, is coming back after time has been lost, time that could’ve been spent slowly building tapestries to change loneliness to trust and blooming love. Afraid of the bloom, some hibernate instead, wishing only to partake of forbidden fruit when it pleases them. Forbidden now, because I forbid it for good.
Emily Cloward © 2018