“I am too hot and burned by my own thoughts. Often, it nearly takes my breath away.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche
I’ve been described as “intense.” “Melodramatic.” Both by those who know me best.
Me? Intense?? The easy-breezy one who’s known for giggling at everything and nothing? It took me by surprise.
Doesn’t everyone exaggerate lonely Tuesday nights? Make-believe like there’s no-one in the world to write them poetry? Fall harder than any number of ‘chin up’ pep talks – however well-meaning and momentarily empowering – could prevent? Avoid tearjerkers and soppy songs at all costs because FEELINGS? Believe everything the Disney movies of their childhoods told them?
Admittedly, I feel like quite the tortured cliché as I sit here with my hood up, legs crossed at angles that I’m only now realising are unsustainable, SZA breathing at me through the Spotify app.
I don’t tend to do things by halves. My heart’s selective with the things it seeks out, but the stuff it pursues? It’d better get ready to be loved SO HARD. When I’m in, I’m all in. (And, conversely, when I hurt? Ouchies.) But I kinda like it that way.
The alternative, I assume, would be to be “cool,” which I imagine to feel like an overwhelmingly frequent passivity towards life. To just be a bit ‘meh’ about most things. I don’t know about you, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to cry rivers, write in rambles and fall about laughing as often as my aching belly will allow. I’m here for riding solo to midweek gigs and dancing ’til the lights come on (because to hell with being well-rested). I’m here for saying “eff yes” to chances and “let’s not” to caution.
The middle ground holds no inspiration for me.
Burning thoughts inspire. The words flow when my brain’s bursting.
My recent brush with
romance duplicity masquerading as romance has left a scar in me that aches. I’m still at the stage where I feel like it always will. But deep down, I know this, too, will pass. And in the meantime? The muse is sitting pretty. That’s how I deal with stuff. I let the words bleed out of me until they make sense in my head. Until I reach catharsis. Until I wonder what all the fuss was ever about in the first place and I breathe easy once more.
And although the intensity of the sadness I feel might be smarting right now? At least I gave it my all. At least, when presented with an opportunity to love and to give, I did. Things may not have turned out as I or anyone else could have anticipated. But at least I gave them the chance to. At least I showed up. At least I didn’t cower in favour of coming undone.
That’s something I can never feel sorry for.
“Never apologise for burning too brightly or collapsing into yourself every night. That is how galaxies are made.”
– Tyler Kent White