We speak in riddles in fear of the truth; our hearts have found the words to say but our mouths have not the courage to speak them. It is not necessarily a bad thing to be acutely aware of the dangers of being too forthright and our deliberate hesitations have been indispensable in protecting us from offending others. But this reminiscent remedy, a memory once left in the distance, is back in its haunting and palpably so. And it reeks of desperation and harks of telling, even against the will of solitude. So it must be unfolded then, yet cleverly twisted and presented with a ribbon on top; your first line of distraction.
It is like a rope that is severed at the ends and on the brink of snapping. It has outlasted its tensile strength and rigidity but whilst you are tethering on the edge of a cliff, you have but little choice to hang on to it. There is an inflatable landing pad set in position far below the clouds that have masked your perception and marred your intuition. We do the dumbest things sometime and this is one of them. You know it will snap eventually and all connection will be lost but every creeping second you continue to grasp it and even faintly detect its presence is heartwarming. And you close your eyes and try to forget that the very reason you're hanging off this cliff was because you foolishly fell over the edge of desire.
It is purported and posited that the rope was in perfect condition and you can almost hear the outcry of the people below the truth you are afraid to face. How the condemnations echo the vacuum of space you have enclosed yourself within and how it seems too contrived a judgment for them to make about you, and too fragile an argument for you to rebut with. Nobody seems to be correct in this pointless endeavor but you focus on how the cloud don you in a cloak of anonymity and clandestinely raise your finger, wishing they could feel your resentment but wishing they would not see through the disguise.
It is like a mousetrap that deliberately lures you in with a single solid shrapnel of cheese and against all odds you would go for that cheese because you think you can outsmart this earthly contraption. But it is not the fear of being clamped down upon that stops you in your tracks, somebody has leashed you against the wall, and made you the sole audience of what would have become your demise should you be let free. They tempt you in your face but callously sweep their backs in an attempt to taunt you for stretching your limits. But it is true nonetheless and you find humble acceptance in your corner of shame.
Like a dog chasing its own tail, we go round in circles and by this point, you would very well know that none of you are in this story, perhaps one, or just one two many. We don't always deliberately go out of our way to leave footprints behind, but when they are deliberate, they are often overshadowed by the currents and tides that wash in.
We like to forget and hope things would never repeat itself and in the events they do, just simply delete that repeated incident. Having not even faulted twice, deleting that repetition has not served its purpose; for that is how I have ever known it as it was: a tiny alien, an eagle in two under and just short of three.
