Owning it All
I own it all.
I own the inflation of stories and lust. I own the desire. I own being in love with love. I own the smoke-curl of want that seeps from my pores, the deep seas of longing in my eyes, and the fearlessness it takes to swing my heart-gate wide every step of the way.
And now I walk away from it all.
I see it and don’t need it. I can feel it and understand its salinity, its toxins, its heat. I’ve swallowed the bait and have a good memory. Fool’s paradise? That’s where they find fool’s gold, which is what I’ve been handling all along.
Fool’s gold because when I’m with a man and have an agenda, I’m not really with him at all. I’m engaged with some false temporality, some code behavior, something so potent only in falseness.
This is a far cry from self-deception or intentional deception. This is, instead, about as real as it can get. To hold it all the patterns outside of myself and gaze at them as if they’re wrapped around marble in the palm of my hands. So this story goes here, and connects to that story, and this other story hangs over all these side stories, and then here, underneath it all, buried beneath the slime and muck of it, is the real story. The lack of story. The tiny spot on the colored marble where no pattern exists. I’ll take that speck, place it back inside, act from this place, learning from the past and wedded only to the present.