Anxious. Can't sleep.
There was a time when Love to me was all beautiful things. When it was tender and soft and carefree. Like a walk in the meadows, or a Poppy orchard with the butterflies fluttering for company. When trying to replicate my feelings, I couldn't come up with any less than this for them.
Today I feel like a sham. There is not much that is tender or vulnerable. It gets frustrating if I try too hard as I sound less original. The more I try, the more I hate. In the past, I have never had as many drafts as I do today.
My expressions of self only seem to make me loath my self more these days, leave alone let them feel my love. Then again, I wonder if this is really love anymore. But before I let that thought take me into a complete tangent, I must remember that I cant always be searching for 'that love' cause that love too gets boring, if lived too often. Its like reading the same lines again and again, the first few times you may feel the enthu, but after a few reads, your eyes and mind gets trained to ignore and move on
Anyways, I think I cant sleep, only cause I have gotten used to a good night call since for ever! When Beethovan and John Keats felt the way we did, and we able to describe it better, then I guess, I may have a chance too. Its not time yet. I must open myself to feel my wings, and believe that I can create wonderful things if I open my heart again to feel them. If I start seeing them again, as I once saw them, for the first time.
For that I may have to have a hundred and one conversations with this mind of mine. I may have to kill or bribe. Or I may just have to fall in love all over again. What ever it may be. Tonight I am going to spend in hope that when it comes to me, it takes my life force with it, like it did then.
Until then, this night does need company, so do I.