Living through words is a dangerous thing. Almost as dangerous as being completely honest with yourself.

I sometimes (often) think that I'm the only person in my life who's ever truly honest with me. I don't know if this is because I surround myself with people who don't know how to be honest with me, or because I just don't allow them to be.
Either way, it's alienating. In the truest sense of the word. I feel like I know what people are really saying, even as the words that come out of their mouths say something different. And I don't think I'm wrong about what they're thinking and feeling, because their bodies and their eyes say something completely different from their mouths. It makes me feel like a teenager, to be so confused by conflicting signals from other human beings.

Anyways.
Realizing that you are full of words, and empty of deeds, is infuriating. And frightening. I feel old and useless and pathetic, all because I have no tangible evidence of the wonderful stories I've told myself for years.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, really. I'm angry. I refuse to feel this way anymore, but I lack the background of action to provide impetus and momentum for change. So I welter in confused anger, trying to take comfort in words that have less and less comfort to give.

I wonder where to start, where to find the ability to take action. I did it once, sideways, with plenty of little cheats in place to provide safety. And then I did it again, after far too long thinking about it, letting something die and rot before pointing out the obvious.
I don't want to do that anymore. I want to confront change head on, to take action by moving forward fearlessly. And I have no platform to spring off from, built of knowledge and previous action. It's not an excuse for my own lack of action. It's just something I need to acknowledge, so I can figure out how to build that platform with the resources I have.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fucking Monsanto... FUCKING HUMANS!!

Is it terrible that my reaction to this article is an eye roll and a "No f'ing shit, Sherlock"? Good lord. Especially this part: But farmers sprayed so much Roundup that weeds quickly evolved to survive it. “What we’re talking about here is Darwinian evolution in fast-forward,” Mike Owen, a weed scientist at Iowa State University, said. There's a strain of extremely hardy coca plant growing all over Latin America right now that is almost completely resistant to any sort of herbicide except the most toxic. It's a strain that created itself in under 10 years, which is an insanely short period of time for a plant to evolve. Why did it do so? Because of the "War on Drugs". We sprayed so much Roundup throughout it's natural habitat that the evolution of the plant was spurred into high speed. We created a plant that we don't have the resources to destroy in an effort to look like we were doing something decisive. Fucking brilliant. Now the same thing i...
Read more

Ah, sexual dysfunction, my old friend...

I have a feeling I'm going to be appalled at myself after I write this out, but right now I haven't been able to stop an evil, smug little smile from creeping onto my face all afternoon. So, last night, this guy B came over. I've been seeing him off and on for about 4 months now. He's got some quirks that I find annoying, but for the most part our sexual chemistry more than makes up for that. One of the most annoying quirks is his tendency to bite. Hard. I've had bruises with perfect teeth shaped imprints from him. Now, I don't actually mind biting, for the most part. I like the contrast of sensation, between arousal and pain. And this guy knows that, and has taken too free license with it in the past. I've talked to him about it, and told him to go easier, to not bite so hard. And he listened, for the most part.  But last night, he bit me really, really hard just after I'd had a REALLY intense orgasm. And that level of pain transfered all that intense f...
Read more
It's so much easier to feel beautiful when you're alone. I wonder about that, sometimes. Of all the beautiful sex I've had, the best has been alone. Not the best orgasms, of course. The orgasms I give myself always feel a little flat. I can't feed on my own need, my own fulfillment. I only feel content, full, after I've lost myself in a lovers fruition. But beautiful... that only seems to happen in my own eyes. When I'm alone, I see the spill of my own hair across a pillow as I turn my face to the side, and it's art. I feel my own skin, silk. I pull my breasts out of confines of my bra, and the expanse of flesh doesn't feel ample, it feels right. Their size doesn't matter to me, only what they make me feel, and every inch of surface is waiting for my fingertips and nails. My hard little nipples aren't too big or too small. They're simply perfect points of sensation. I can touch them soft or rough, it doesn't matter. I do only what I wan...
Read more