Picture My Life

For Intellect. For Emotion. For Substance.

Posts tagged trust

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Love is often feared because it is constant. There is a thrill about falling, because in order to let yourself fall you’re forced into faith, into believing that there is someone waiting to catch you. But the fall is endless. Instead the thrill is maximized with every passing moment, every endeavor, every new step towards the profession of love. The first touch, the first time you hold hands. When you start to explore each other, inside and out, the tingling sensation that ripples across your skin, the grasping tug at your heart. Love is about conquering fears. Allowing yourself to trust, leaving yourself vulnerable, opening up the parts of yourself you’ve spent a lifetime barricading. It’s leaving behind insecurities, lowering inhibitions and swallowing the bitter taste of passion without feeling the need to cringe. Love is accepting faults, not theirs, but your own. The understanding that perfection is imperfect, forever is merely a lifetime and broken hearts are inevitable. It’s the conscious decision to become powerless, putting your life in the hands of someone else because otherwise you’d be shattered. It’s getting to know yourself, peeling off the mask you’ve been hiding behind and allowing the truth to rush over you. Love is an endless experience.

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Twenty-six

With age comes wisdom. Today, I am wise enough not to trust, prudent enough to embrace the wall I’ve spent my whole life building. I’ve learned to depend on my instincts and mask nervous butterflies with resilience. If I counted age by the number of friends at my side, I would be infantile. If these years were chapters, I’ve spent too much time writing of anger. Every year is a reminder that life is too short to dwell and just long enough to enjoy the moment. Today, I am wise enough to love more than hate, surrounding myself with others lucky enough to love as much as I do. To those who circle in and out, your time will come to stay. I’ve learned timing is everything and everyone is on their own schedule. If I counted age by the number of lovers I thought I had, I would be ancient. If I counted the ones that mattered, I would have only one birthday to celebrate. If these years were lyrics, I haven’t spent enough time listening to the love songs. With age… comes gratitude.

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I’m going to make myself excruciatingly vulnerable right now and tell you that I’m scared. I have the worst innate fear consuming me and I’m afraid that I’ll be haunted with this notion for the rest of my life.

I haven’t slept in days. I’ve spent my nights tossing and turning, fighting back tears and attempting to console myself. Struggling with the urge to ask the people who once promised they’d be there… to actually be there.

I try to act strong even though deep down I know just how frail I really am. It’s one of my worst attributes, despite trying to convince myself otherwise. Maybe it’s the reason why I didn’t go through with it this last time. Maybe it’s why I opted for one more week of being whole, competent. Seven days of insomnia and emotional agony aside.

Some say this is just a test. The thing is, I’ve been tested all my life and then some. What this really feels like is punishment, a life-long sentence for not being religious enough, not praying enough, not believing enough. I hate to say this, but I’m left feeling pretty faithless.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. and the furthest thing from my mind seems to be sleep. I find my fingers gripping at my bed sheets, soaked pillows and my mind in the last place I want it to be. Thoughts of then and now. Thoughts of tomorrow. The things I’ve lost before I’ve ever had the chance of having them.

…And now I’m with the one person who’s ever thought of me as enough, the one person that’s never made me feel inadequate. And one day this could be the one inadequacy he sees, the thing that makes me less than perfect, less than enough. And what then? What if I lose him and this thing I’ve lost before I’ve even had it and everything I’ve ever wanted all at once?

I don’t know what the right thing for me is. I’m afraid I’ll look back on this moment and wish I’d chosen the other route. I’ll wish I would’ve asked my mom. I’ll wish I would’ve prayed more. I’ll wish I would’ve had a little faith in something. I just don’t know how to turn to God and ask Him if I’ll be okay, if I’m just worrying for nothing.

I’m tired of having questions. I want an answer.

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Sometime between then and now we lost ourselves, finding refuge in misplaced homage and mistaking love for who can hold on the longest. We were never satisfied with everything, so we left it all behind, riding a stowaway train to recovery.  His eyes begged for salvation with deep gazes that seemed more misleading than honest. He’d quote the tunes of love songs because that’s the only way he was ever taught to love, using the words other people came up with.  When we’d make love he wouldn’t speak, he’d let the music do the talking. We left the room stained with deception, fiending off the secrets we kept from each other and the lies we would tell everyone else. Maybe it was the taste of wine that led me back here, tarnished by the hint of aberrance or the deceit behind it. His touch felt like home, rescue from the world around me. These moments were more than fleeting, this was therapy. Eyes locked, hands gripped, our bodies enthralled in this transitory passion. Thoughtless. I was hoping to lose sight of you in his arms. Our lies masked walls of infidelity, our minds fogged up with thoughts of all the things we didn’t want to think about. We were just trying to run away.

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