u/forevercurious87

A short piece of reflective writing drawn from some of my experiences through this wonderful journey of life. I’m still finding my feet as a writer, so I welcome any feedback.
I love the process of putting myself back in a particular moment and trying to express how it felt at the time. I also love the feeling of finally finishing something, because it means I’ve won another argument with the voice in my head telling me it’s not quite finished yet. An argument I’m fairly certain isn’t unique to me.

Weird I am.

And I’m the one who has to live with that every day.

I don’t believe I came into this world complicated. I think I arrived much like everyone else, a kind soul, wanting to love and be loved, knowing nothing yet of shame, regret, ambition or loss.

Then time introduced itself.

And time has a way of leaving fingerprints. Like those left upon a window while waiting for something just beyond the glass. Stay there long enough and the world on the other side begins to change. The things you once reached for move, disappear, or become something else entirely. And while they may remain out of reach, the fingerprints remain — proof that you were there, that you waited, that you wanted something enough to press your hands against the glass.

I’m proud of what I have overcome and proud of what I have achieved. But I’m old enough now to understand that survival has a price, and sometimes we don’t discover what we paid until years after we feel spent and struggle to find change.

At thirty-eight, I find myself trying to understand the man who survived it all.

My soul doesn’t feel as pure as it once did. The proud young man who swayed with music feels so distant. My confidence has been wounded, and some days I look into the mirror and struggle to recognise the person looking back.

You can call me what you wish.

You can judge me for what I have done. Shame me for the mistakes I have made. Reduce my life to its worst chapters if that makes my story easier for you to understand.

But your words will never punish me as harshly as my own have.

They are merely echoes of conversations I have already had with myself in rooms you have never entered, and my kind heart hopes that you never will.

Perhaps that is one of the cruellest things about being human.

We are given this extraordinary thing called life, but nobody tells us how easily we can spend it trying to become worthy of having it. Searching for the next piece of the puzzle, not realising the beauty is amongst the pieces already found.

We chase happiness as though it lives somewhere ahead of us.

The next job.
The next achievement.
The next person.
The next version of ourselves.

Always there.

Never here.

And while we are busy becoming, life quietly happens around us.

We talk about spending time, saving it, wasting it and losing it as though it were currency. But unlike money, we never know the balance of our account until it becomes borrowed time.

Perhaps that is why the smallest things eventually become the largest in value.

A conversation we didn’t know we would remember.
A hand held a little longer.
Laughing until breathing became difficult.
Someone saying our name in a way nobody else could.
Sitting beside somebody we love without needing anything from them except another minute.

Those are the things time cannot refund. We own them. They are ours to keep, and I somehow feel we will hold them closest when there is no more time to be spent.

Life gives us choices too.

We can become victims of everything that has happened to us, or search amongst the wreckage for something worth carrying forward.

The simple question of, “Is my glass half full, and should I drink it?” is an easy one for those not walking through the desert. The stranger question is: why did I choose the desert when my other option was a rainforest?

And with this, I digress on how our choices can become simply complicated.

We can choose kindness when cruelty would be easier. We can live by the values we claim to possess.

Or we can dance with the devil and convince ourselves we only did it because he knew the music.

I have danced with both.

There were years when life threw things at me that I thought would destroy me.

And I danced through them.

When others might have run, I danced.

When I was frightened, I danced.

When I was hurting, I danced.

When I didn’t know where life was taking me, somehow I kept moving.

And I’m proud that I danced when I could.

I remember the music.

But lately, I have found it difficult even to walk.

Because somewhere along the way, the person I see in the mirror stopped bringing music to my ears.

There is a peculiar loneliness in missing yourself, or becoming lost in wondering who you could have been.

For a long time, I believed the answer was to become someone I could love again.

Better.
Stronger.
More successful.
Less damaged.

I imagined some future version of myself standing in the distance, waiting for me to finally become worthy of him.

Perhaps that was the illusion.

Perhaps the person I was supposed to love was never waiting at the finish line.

Perhaps he has been here the entire time.

Tired.
Weathered.
Imperfect.

Standing in front of the same mirror, waiting for me to stop judging him long enough to recognise him.

I have made many mistakes, and I’ll make more before my time is over.

But underneath the skin of this weathered body, I still believe there is a good man. A talented man. A gifted man. A man who could simply be called unique.

I would not walk past someone who was hurting. I would sacrifice myself for those I love. I think deeply. I feel deeply.

For years I thought that was my weakness.

Now I understand it may have always been my gift — one earned through countless nights with tears running down my face, asking why?

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

Perhaps it was never:

Why did this happen?

Perhaps it was simply:

What will I do with it?

Because I am still here.

And while I am here, there is still time.

Not to become the man I once imagined I would be.

But to forgive the one standing in front of me.

And maybe, one day, when I look into that mirror,

I’ll hear the music again.

Oh, how I’ll dance.

But I’ll dance a little differently this time.

I’ll dance to music of my own, made from a different sound.

The sound of birds somewhere above me, and a waterfall crashing nearby, its fury beneath my feet as each step touches the ground.

The soles of my feet still burnt from walking through the hot sand, I step into the cold water and look at the cup I’ve carried in my hand.

I won’t be needing this anymore.

I’ll drink from the water.

I’ll listen to the birds.

And I’ll dance.

Not as the man I was.

Not as the man I thought I should become.

Just as me.

Weird, I am.

And perhaps, finally,

I’ll be glad that I am.

Weird I am.

And I’m the one who has to live with that every day.

I don’t believe I came into this world complicated. I think I arrived much like everyone else, a kind soul, wanting to love and be loved, knowing nothing yet of shame, regret, ambition or loss.

Then time introduced itself.

And time has a way of leaving fingerprints. Like those left upon a window while waiting for something just beyond the glass. Stay there long enough and the world on the other side begins to change. The things you once reached for move, disappear, or become something else entirely. And while they may remain out of reach, the fingerprints remain — proof that you were there, that you waited, that you wanted something enough to press your hands against the glass.

I’m proud of what I have overcome and proud of what I have achieved. But I’m old enough now to understand that survival has a price, and sometimes we don’t discover what we paid until years after we feel spent and struggle to find change.

At thirty-eight, I find myself trying to understand the man who survived it all.

My soul doesn’t feel as pure as it once did. The proud young man who swayed with music feels so distant. My confidence has been wounded, and some days I look into the mirror and struggle to recognise the person looking back.

You can call me what you wish.

You can judge me for what I have done. Shame me for the mistakes I have made. Reduce my life to its worst chapters if that makes my story easier for you to understand.

But your words will never punish me as harshly as my own have.

They are merely echoes of conversations I have already had with myself in rooms you have never entered, and my kind heart hopes that you never will.

Perhaps that is one of the cruellest things about being human.

We are given this extraordinary thing called life, but nobody tells us how easily we can spend it trying to become worthy of having it. Searching for the next piece of the puzzle, not realising the beauty is amongst the pieces already found.

We chase happiness as though it lives somewhere ahead of us.

The next job.
The next achievement.
The next person.
The next version of ourselves.

Always there.

Never here.

And while we are busy becoming, life quietly happens around us.

We talk about spending time, saving it, wasting it and losing it as though it were currency. But unlike money, we never know the balance of our account until it becomes borrowed time.

Perhaps that is why the smallest things eventually become the largest in value.

A conversation we didn’t know we would remember.
A hand held a little longer.
Laughing until breathing became difficult.
Someone saying our name in a way nobody else could.
Sitting beside somebody we love without needing anything from them except another minute.

Those are the things time cannot refund. We own them. They are ours to keep, and I somehow feel we will hold them closest when there is no more time to be spent.

Life gives us choices too.

We can become victims of everything that has happened to us, or search amongst the wreckage for something worth carrying forward.

The simple question of, “Is my glass half full, and should I drink it?” is an easy one for those not walking through the desert. The stranger question is: why did I choose the desert when my other option was a rainforest?

And with this, I digress on how our choices can become simply complicated.

We can choose kindness when cruelty would be easier. We can live by the values we claim to possess.

Or we can dance with the devil and convince ourselves we only did it because he knew the music.

I have danced with both.

There were years when life threw things at me that I thought would destroy me.

And I danced through them.

When others might have run, I danced.

When I was frightened, I danced.

When I was hurting, I danced.

When I didn’t know where life was taking me, somehow I kept moving.

And I’m proud that I danced when I could.

I remember the music.

But lately, I have found it difficult even to walk.

Because somewhere along the way, the person I see in the mirror stopped bringing music to my ears.

There is a peculiar loneliness in missing yourself, or becoming lost in wondering who you could have been.

For a long time, I believed the answer was to become someone I could love again.

Better.
Stronger.
More successful.
Less damaged.

I imagined some future version of myself standing in the distance, waiting for me to finally become worthy of him.

Perhaps that was the illusion.

Perhaps the person I was supposed to love was never waiting at the finish line.

Perhaps he has been here the entire time.

Tired.
Weathered.
Imperfect.

Standing in front of the same mirror, waiting for me to stop judging him long enough to recognise him.

I have made many mistakes, and I’ll make more before my time is over.

But underneath the skin of this weathered body, I still believe there is a good man. A talented man. A gifted man. A man who could simply be called unique.

I would not walk past someone who was hurting. I would sacrifice myself for those I love. I think deeply. I feel deeply.

For years I thought that was my weakness.

Now I understand it may have always been my gift — one earned through countless nights with tears running down my face, asking why?

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

Perhaps it was never:

Why did this happen?

Perhaps it was simply:

What will I do with it?

Because I am still here.

And while I am here, there is still time.

Not to become the man I once imagined I would be.

But to forgive the one standing in front of me.

And maybe, one day, when I look into that mirror,

I’ll hear the music again.

Oh, how I’ll dance.

But I’ll dance a little differently this time.

I’ll dance to music of my own, made from a different sound.

The sound of birds somewhere above me, and a waterfall crashing nearby, its fury beneath my feet as each step touches the ground.

The soles of my feet still burnt from walking through the hot sand, I step into the cold water and look at the cup I’ve carried in my hand.

I won’t be needing this anymore.

I’ll drink from the water.

I’ll listen to the birds.

And I’ll dance.

Not as the man I was.

Not as the man I thought I should become.

Just as me.

Weird, I am.

And perhaps, finally,

I’ll be glad that I am.

Weird I am.

And I’m the one who has to live with that every day.

I don’t believe I came into this world complicated. I think I arrived much like everyone else, a kind soul, wanting to love and be loved, knowing nothing yet of shame, regret, ambition or loss.

Then time introduced itself.

And time has a way of leaving fingerprints. Like those left upon a window while waiting for something just beyond the glass. Stay there long enough and the world on the other side begins to change. The things you once reached for move, disappear, or become something else entirely. And while they may remain out of reach, the fingerprints remain — proof that you were there, that you waited, that you wanted something enough to press your hands against the glass.

I’m proud of what I have overcome and proud of what I have achieved. But I’m old enough now to understand that survival has a price, and sometimes we don’t discover what we paid until years after we feel spent and struggle to find change.

At thirty-eight, I find myself trying to understand the man who survived it all.

My soul doesn’t feel as pure as it once did. The proud young man who swayed with music feels so distant. My confidence has been wounded, and some days I look into the mirror and struggle to recognise the person looking back.

You can call me what you wish.

You can judge me for what I have done. Shame me for the mistakes I have made. Reduce my life to its worst chapters if that makes my story easier for you to understand.

But your words will never punish me as harshly as my own have.

They are merely echoes of conversations I have already had with myself in rooms you have never entered, and my kind heart hopes that you never will.

Perhaps that is one of the cruellest things about being human.

We are given this extraordinary thing called life, but nobody tells us how easily we can spend it trying to become worthy of having it. Searching for the next piece of the puzzle, not realising the beauty is amongst the pieces already found.

We chase happiness as though it lives somewhere ahead of us.

The next job.
The next achievement.
The next person.
The next version of ourselves.

Always there.

Never here.

And while we are busy becoming, life quietly happens around us.

We talk about spending time, saving it, wasting it and losing it as though it were currency. But unlike money, we never know the balance of our account until it becomes borrowed time.

Perhaps that is why the smallest things eventually become the largest in value.

A conversation we didn’t know we would remember.
A hand held a little longer.
Laughing until breathing became difficult.
Someone saying our name in a way nobody else could.
Sitting beside somebody we love without needing anything from them except another minute.

Those are the things time cannot refund. We own them. They are ours to keep, and I somehow feel we will hold them closest when there is no more time to be spent.

Life gives us choices too.

We can become victims of everything that has happened to us, or search amongst the wreckage for something worth carrying forward.

The simple question of, “Is my glass half full, and should I drink it?” is an easy one for those not walking through the desert. The stranger question is: why did I choose the desert when my other option was a rainforest?

And with this, I digress on how our choices can become simply complicated.

We can choose kindness when cruelty would be easier. We can live by the values we claim to possess.

Or we can dance with the devil and convince ourselves we only did it because he knew the music.

I have danced with both.

There were years when life threw things at me that I thought would destroy me.

And I danced through them.

When others might have run, I danced.

When I was frightened, I danced.

When I was hurting, I danced.

When I didn’t know where life was taking me, somehow I kept moving.

And I’m proud that I danced when I could.

I remember the music.

But lately, I have found it difficult even to walk.

Because somewhere along the way, the person I see in the mirror stopped bringing music to my ears.

There is a peculiar loneliness in missing yourself, or becoming lost in wondering who you could have been.

For a long time, I believed the answer was to become someone I could love again.

Better.
Stronger.
More successful.
Less damaged.

I imagined some future version of myself standing in the distance, waiting for me to finally become worthy of him.

Perhaps that was the illusion.

Perhaps the person I was supposed to love was never waiting at the finish line.

Perhaps he has been here the entire time.

Tired.
Weathered.
Imperfect.

Standing in front of the same mirror, waiting for me to stop judging him long enough to recognise him.

I have made many mistakes, and I’ll make more before my time is over.

But underneath the skin of this weathered body, I still believe there is a good man. A talented man. A gifted man. A man who could simply be called unique.

I would not walk past someone who was hurting. I would sacrifice myself for those I love. I think deeply. I feel deeply.

For years I thought that was my weakness.

Now I understand it may have always been my gift — one earned through countless nights with tears running down my face, asking why?

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

Perhaps it was never:

Why did this happen?

Perhaps it was simply:

What will I do with it?

Because I am still here.

And while I am here, there is still time.

Not to become the man I once imagined I would be.

But to forgive the one standing in front of me.

And maybe, one day, when I look into that mirror,

I’ll hear the music again.

Oh, how I’ll dance.

But I’ll dance a little differently this time.

I’ll dance to music of my own, made from a different sound.

The sound of birds somewhere above me, and a waterfall crashing nearby, its fury beneath my feet as each step touches the ground.

The soles of my feet still burnt from walking through the hot sand, I step into the cold water and look at the cup I’ve carried in my hand.

I won’t be needing this anymore.

I’ll drink from the water.

I’ll listen to the birds.

And I’ll dance.

Not as the man I was.

Not as the man I thought I should become.

Just as me.

Weird, I am.

And perhaps, finally,

I’ll be glad that I am.

I have a doctors appointment tomorrow at 1:40pm and I have to pay additional as I need a report for my insurance company. I had $150 in Amazon gift cards that I tried to sell on Reddit but stupid me was scammed and ended up just losing the gift cards. Happy to share any information necessary. I’m employed full time and really just needing a little help. Happy to consider any sort of arrangement.

Hey, was thinking of you and just thought I'd check in. Hope you are well.

I'm not sure if I've ever shared this with you. I haven't shared this with many people as it's a part of my life I tend not to try and remember.

But when I read this, it does make me realise why I am different, or the word I like is unique. Sounds a little better than broken or injured. lol. I have to sell it to myself.

Seriously though, when I read this message my sister sent me, I cry, and then I remember the person who I am before the 38 years of life adds its layers.

This is still who I am, the protector. Many people would look at the cover I wear on my book and would never have thought the story began the way it did. Because most covers of such stories look warn with pages torn.

My depth of love began from sacrifice, survival and protecting. There has been times where I have put myself in front of danger for those I love. This for some is a choice that happens when such moment occurs, where they make a choice. For me and the times this has occurred, there has never been a thought, my brain doesn't have to justify the value of myself over someone I love. It's a reaction, it's my natural response.

8, people like us who push past the adversities even when we have been below the depths of broken, are the un denying proof of why the beauty of a black rose is valued more than red. It didn't become so beautiful in a natural healthy environment. It survived torment and suffering, and as it bled, it bled more red until no more red was to be seen.

Stay well 8, from one black rose to another.

Here is the message my sister sent me.

It was never your job to worry about me, or protect me 4. I do remember everything you did for me.

I also remember the fun times we had when we weren't worried about her. Still to this day the biggest and best fish I ever caught was that salmon.

For someone that went through what you did, your extremely resilient and strong! You had it far worse than I ever did! You were the one that got left, you were the one fighting grown men, you were the one surviving. I had you, who did you have? So your the strong one 4 remember that. Not only were you keeping your own head a float but whenever you were around I knew nothing would happen to me.

I understand the feeling of just wanting mum, I do. I know it's not to the same extent but I was 16 with a newborn when she lost the plot and told me I wasn't her daughter and assaulted me. So I can see why in your situation it was easier to try and hate her. I wish I could hate both my parents but unfortunately for my mental health I love both of them still...

I know you already probably know this and it doesn't help now, but there's never been a day in my life that wouldn't be better if you weren't there. I've always wanted you around even when you were an asshole sticking snot on me. I also do know as much as it doesn't and didn't feel like it, mum does love you.

I have never met anyone that could have done what you did from such a young age. I honestly don't know how you made it work!

You did protect me with your life, day in day out. Thank you for everything you did for me. Without you, I know I wouldn't be here.

Like I said, it was never your job to worry about me. We both had 2 parents that were meant to do that. X

I want to love, the way the right song finds me in the exact moment I need it, carrying me gently through a season of my life.

I want to love, like a lingering gaze that holds the world still, broken only when thought returns or distance pulls us apart.

I want to love, like the embrace of a feather-down duvet on a cold winter’s morning, where warmth makes time stand still.

I want to love, like the final bite of a favourite meal, savouring its perfection while knowing there will one day be another.

I want to love, with the safety of sheets tucked in so tight by a grandmother’s caring hands, waiting for a lullaby to carry me into peaceful sleep.

I want to love, the way these words feel when the woman I love looks at me and, before a single word is spoken, her eyes whisper, “I love you.”

This is how I want to love.

Without it, I feel incomplete.
Without it, my imagination becomes a lonely place.
Without it, I wander, searching for something I cannot name.

I want to love.

I have found you before, and I have held you.

With you, I had purpose.
With you, I felt safe.
With you, I was whole.

When I looked at you, there was no searching.
When you looked at me, there was no doubt.

Because I had you, and you had me.

Two wandering souls, no longer searching,
having found, in one another,

the purpose of love maybe.

All I know is it would be a cruel world without it,
a world I do not wish to exist.

And for when my time is up, what will I take with me?

Not the things that I owned,
nor the scars that I earned.

I will take memories I made, with those who I chose closely, but it is those memories with you that will matter the most.

So if one day my words become silent, or if my memory starts to fade.

Just look into my eyes, and they will tell you, what you need to know.

you are
and will always be
the one,

I want to love.

I want to love,
like the right song that finds me in the exact moment,
comforting me and carrying me through a time I felt it was needed.

I want to love,
like the warm stare that holds the world still,
interrupted only when thought creeps back in
or the touch of your special person slips away.

I want to love,
like the embrace of a feather-down duvet
on a cold winter’s morning,
when warmth holds you so closely it frightens the cold.

I want to love,
like the last bite of a favourite meal,
savouring it completely,
knowing there will be time before the next.

I want to love,
with the safety of sheets tucked in by a grandmother’s hands,
waiting for the lullaby that gently closes my eyes.

I want to love,
the way these words feel
when the person I love looks at me,
and before a single word is spoken,
her eyes say,
“I love you.”

This is how I want to love.

Without it, I feel incomplete.
Without it, I suffer within my imagination.
Without it, I feel lost.

I want to love.

I have found you before,
and I have held you.

With you, I had purpose.
With you, I felt safe.

When I held you, I was complete,
and when you looked at me,
there was no searching.

Because I had you,
and you had me.

Two lost souls,
no longer wandering,
no longer searching.

And for a moment,
love fulfilled its purpose,

I have lost,
I have laughed,
I have cried,

But when I ask myself what do I want in this life?

My answer.

I want to love!

I want to love,
like the right song that finds me in the exact moment,
comforting me and carrying me through a time I felt it was needed.

I want to love,
like the warm stare that holds the world still,
interrupted only when thought creeps back in
or the touch of your special person slips away.

I want to love,
like the embrace of a feather-down duvet
on a cold winter’s morning,
when warmth holds you so closely it frightens the cold.

I want to love,
like the last bite of a favourite meal,
savouring it completely,
knowing there will be time before the next.

I want to love,
with the safety of sheets tucked in by a grandmother’s hands,
waiting for the lullaby that gently closes my eyes.

I want to love,
the way these words feel
when the person I love looks at me,
and before a single word is spoken,
her eyes say,
“I love you.”

This is how I want to love.

Without it, I feel incomplete.
Without it, I suffer within my imagination.
Without it, I feel lost.

I want to love.

I have found you before,
and I have held you.

With you, I had purpose.
With you, I felt safe.

When I held you, I was complete,
and when you looked at me,
there was no searching.

Because I had you,
and you had me.

Two lost souls,
no longer wandering,
no longer searching.

And for a moment,
love fulfilled its purpose,

In this life,
I have lost,
I have laughed,
I have cried,

But when I ask myself what do I want in this life?

My answer.

I want to love!

Needing just a little help for a cash shortfall until Friday. I receive my AIA payment in Friday which I receive monthly and happy to provide details. I literally just tried to swap a $50 giftcard for the first time and I stuffed up and just lost that about two hours ago. I can even provide $60 digital giftcard for PlayStation store as assurance if that helps with peace of mind. If require any other information, I’m happy to provide within reason of not making a similar mistake I just did with that bloody gift card. 🤦‍♂️

The PlayStation card isn’t country specific. The prezze giftcard it AU but I could change it to only a couple cards that aren’t AU like ROBLOX or NEXON.

My dear,

There’s something about you that unsettles me in the most beautiful way. An instant, an impulse, an undeniable pull, something I can’t quite name, only feel. I find myself caught between resisting it and wanting to fall further into it.

I keep asking myself… is it you, or is it something in me that only you seem to awaken?

It might be the way you look at me. That slight smirk, the quiet confidence behind it, and the intensity in your eyes, it’s unlike anything I’ve known. There’s a depth there that feels uncharted, something that draws me in without warning. I feel it physically, like a shift in temperature, as though I’m drifting closer to something I don’t fully understand, yet don’t want to escape.

And then there are the moments when you’re unaware of your own gravity. The way you rest, effortless and unguarded, like the soft curve of a crescent moon holding the night together. There’s a glow about you, subtle but impossible to ignore, that seems to grow the longer I look.

Everything about you feels like a quiet kind of energy. A presence that doesn’t demand attention, but somehow takes it completely. Like a lone light in the dark, steady, warm, impossible not to follow.

And I don’t fully understand it yet,

but I know this much,

whatever this is, it’s pulling me closer,

and I’m not sure I want to resist it anymore.

Instant, impulse, urge, as I try to withdraw myself from my natural predatory instinct.

What has drawn me to such immersive thoughts that I want to act upon.

Is it you, or I ask myself is it me?

I see the slight smirk as you smile and I find it nearly intimidating as you make intense eye contact with me.

it’s a stare,

a stare that is different from many.

The depth in your gaze feels uncharted enough to send shivers down my spine.

I feel my bodies temperature change as I swim deeper towards the darkness within your eyes.

As you lay on the bed in a comfortable yet vulnerable position, your back is slightly arched towards the back of the pillow, like the first crescent moon cradling the nights stars.

You share the same glow of a half risen moon, as your pale skin now glistens against a dull ambient tone of the bedside light.

Gradually the room becomes brighter.

Your arms now push beside you as you change your posture.

Your shapely moon now straightens into a street light.

The only street light on the darkest of streets, as it shines against the dark with a warming halogen glow.

It starts to flicker with little flashes of brightness, somethings happening, but I can’t help but stare into the awe as it draws not only me, but everything with wings from afar.

You lay there with your feet touching each other, one rested dominantly on top of the other, whilst your toes from below pinch those of above.

They slowly slip each time they grip, like the grasp of a half lathered soap.

The feeling of fingers pinching together as it slips between only wanting to be caught again.

This friction creates a sense of seduction that’s cruelly magnetic, if held closely the stronger we push to want to face each other,

It’s chemical,

it’s physics**cal

with an urge undoubtedly stronger than being held apart.

Instant, impulse, urge, as I try to withdraw myself from my natural predatory instinct. What has drawn me to such immersive thoughts that I want to act upon.

Is it you, or I ask myself is it me?

I see the slight smirk as you smile and I find it nearly intimidating as you make intense eye contact with me,

it’s a stare, a stare that is different from many. The depth in your gaze feels uncharted enough to send shivers down my spine. I feel my bodies temperature change as I swim deeper towards the darkness within your eyes.

As you lay on the bed in a comfortable yet vulnerable position, your back is slightly arched towards the back of the pillow, like the first crescent moon cradling the nights stars. You share the same glow of a half risen moon, as your pale skin now glistens against a dull ambient tone of the bedside light. You seem to gradually become brighter.

Your arms now push beside you as you change your posture. Your shapely moon now straightens into a street light. The only street light on the darkest of streets, as it shines against the dark with a warming halogen glow. It starts to flicker with little flashes of brightness, somethings happening, but I can’t help but stare into the awe as it draws not only me, but everything with wings from afar.

You lay there with your feet touching each other, one rested dominantly on top of the other, whilst your toes from below pinch those of above, they slowly slip each time they grip, like the grasp of a half lathered soap, the feeling of fingers pinching together as it slips between only wanting to be caught again.

This friction creates a sense of seduction that’s cruelly magnetic, if held closely the stronger we push to want to face each other,

It’s chemical,

it’s physics**cal

with an urge undoubtedly stronger than being held apart.

Instant, impulse, urge, as I try to withdraw myself from my natural predatory instinct.

What has drawn me to such immersive thoughts that I want to act upon.

Is it you, or I ask myself is it me?

I see the slight smirk as you smile and I find it nearly intimidating as you make intense eye contact with me.

it’s a stare,

a stare that is different from many.

The depth in your gaze feels uncharted enough to send shivers down my spine.

I feel my bodies temperature change as I swim deeper towards the darkness within your eyes.

As you lay on the bed in a comfortable yet vulnerable position, your back is slightly arched towards the back of the pillow, like the first crescent moon cradling the nights stars.

You share the same glow of a half risen moon, as your pale skin now glistens against a dull ambient tone of the bedside light.

Gradually the room becomes brighter.

Your arms now push beside you as you change your posture.

Your shapely moon now straightens into a street light.

The only street light on the darkest of streets, as it shines against the dark with a warming halogen glow.

It starts to flicker with little flashes of brightness, somethings happening, but I can’t help but stare into the awe as it draws not only me, but everything with wings from afar.

You lay there with your feet touching each other, one rested dominantly on top of the other, whilst your toes from below pinch those of above.

They slowly slip each time they grip, like the grasp of a half lathered soap.

The feeling of fingers pinching together as it slips between only wanting to be caught again.

This friction creates a sense of seduction that’s cruelly magnetic, if held closely the stronger we push to want to face each other,

It’s chemical,

it’s physics**cal

with an urge undoubtedly stronger than being held apart.

The fear of the truth

gives power to a lie.

this can be how trust is broken, so let’s ask ourselves why.

Are we scared of truth?

Is that what we fear?

Or is honesty sacrificed for our own truth to appear?

I just know I see myself looking back at this very point and wishing.

Oh, how I dream of soft thoughts whilst I juggle a sharp star deep inside my head.

A strained sniffle, as my eyes close with a slight burn that whispers enough.

My eyes stare into a red glow, searching for eyelids holding darkness, as smooth tears puddle to soften the rough.

Awaking from my vivid dream I have to sit with reality and ask,

“was that real, or was that just a world where I’m always actually hers”

Questions asked, with no answers, answers given, with no questions.

Looping thoughts of how I could have done differently, with perfection criticising why I didn’t.

A heavy sigh does no favours as my lungs don’t open like they once did.

When I now breathe, I feel the effort of something that once just happened.

Remembering a young soul eager on becoming older at last.

Excited of the fact, as if there was a belief and promised purpose in vast.

Maybe if then I’d realised that this search doesn’t start beginning, until it feels closer to an end.

Age has killed the make belief, and dreams now considered as pretend.

A dream maybe many of us have, is to go back as our younger self, knowing every trick within our bag.

Yet I often wonder, if every trick was given, would they have hold the same value,

Like the crown warn by a stag.

I just know I see myself looking back at this very point and wishing—

wishing if only there was some way to tell myself to see.

I would say:

“You just need to believe, my son, forgive yourself as you are everything as you are and can be anything as you will. You just need to start living a life you love… as you are enough to be loved deeply without question.

It is only you that needs to see now.

Because if you don’t answer this question, you just end up being me wishing I found a way to tell you how.”

Oh, how I dream of soft thoughts whilst I juggle a sharp star deep inside my head.

My tiny distraction is to watch it bounce from side to side, in my minds arcade of 80’s nostalgia this game of duel is never dead.

A strained sniffle, as my eyes close with a slight burn that whispers enough!

My eyes stare into a red glow,

searching for eyelids holding darkness, as smooth tears puddle to soften the rough.

I’m afraid because I know the light appears soon after this occurs. Awaking from my vivid dream I’ll have to sit with reality and ask “was that real, or was that just a world where I’m always actually hers”

Questions asked, with no answers, answers given, with no questions. Seeking to understand what is often misunderstood. Looping thoughts of how I could have done differently, with perfection criticising why I didn’t, so I feel as if blame sits where it should

A heavy sigh does no favours as my lungs don’t open like they once did.

When I now breathe, I feel the effort of something that once just happened, now I feel there is effort that I must give.

Little care I have shown in preservation of what I’ve had gifted, so instead I tempt fate with my good luck of health, with hope its stays beside me and in the tide it hasn’t drifted.

Weakened joints feel more familiar, and a few clicks echo as I raise to a slumbered stance. The once unbreakable, slowly becoming brittle, so even a warm bath of milk wouldn’t wash away the ache and distain, with any hope or any chance.

What happened?, another question asked, as I look back on time past.

Remembering a young soul eager on becoming older at last.

Excited of the fact,

as if there was a belief and promised purpose.

This childish act,

has become outgrown now, with a feeling met with a point of worthless.

He’s spoilt with time to spend,

as times value seems to be at the beginning and far from an end.

His future doesn’t feel defined for now, it still feels make believe, somewhat fictional, bordering pretend.

Maybe if then I’d realised that this search doesn’t start its beginning, until it feels closer to an end.

Sometimes the right message can be the one we’ve held back sending for some reason, but then it suddenly feels right to only send.

If I could only share with you for what I’ve seen and learnt,

My mistakes and triumphs on a platter, to save the risk of you being burnt.

Oh! How this would change everything, so you could live a life worth living, a life to be respected, and therefore a life well deserved.

For if I’d share with you what I’ve seen, maybe you would live the life you’ve earned.

Would your life be better though if I’d share what you haven’t seen? Or would you feel as hurt as I feel now, if I’d walked you through the depths not yet discovered, to places your footsteps haven’t yet been.

A dream maybe many of us have, is to go back as our younger self, knowing every trick within our bag. It’s like we are strangely telling ourselves the answers, but they are still met with the ignorance of a parent’s well intended nag.

So I sit here still silent, deaf to any whispers that touch my ear, whispering to my inner self I say maybe I will change, and things will be differently better this year.

Different is guaranteed and better to be viewed only by the beholder.

The only guarantee I’m feeling closer to is the one where I’m becoming older.

Why do I ignore what possibly serves me best, as I try to tell myself the good choices to make, they whistle past chest,

they hit me,

in my self belief,

like bullets into a vest.

I just know I see myself looking back at this very point and wishing. Wishing if only there was someway, any way, to tell myself to see, and if I could, only how!

I would say

“You just need to believe, my son, forgive yourself as you are everything as you are” and can be anything as you will, you just need to start living a life you love, and see who I see now, as you are enough to be loved deeply without question, it is only you that needs to see now, because if you don’t answer this question, you just end up being me wishing I-found a way to tell you how”

Oh, how I dream of soft thoughts whilst I juggle a sharp star deep inside my head.

My tiny distraction is to watch it bounce from side to side, in my minds arcade of 80’s nostalgia this game of duel is never dead.

A strained sniffle, as my eyes close with a slight burn that whispers enough!

My eyes stare into a red glow,

searching for eyelids holding darkness,

as smooth tears puddle to soften the rough.

I’m afraid because I know the light appears soon after this occurs. Awaking from my vivid dream I’ll have to sit with reality and ask “was that real, or was that just a world where I’m always actually hers”

Questions asked, with no answers, answers given, with no questions. Seeking to understand what is often misunderstood. Looping thoughts of how I could have done differently, with perfection criticising why I didn’t, so I feel as if blame sits where it should

A heavy sigh does no favours as my lungs don’t open like they once did.

When I now breathe, I feel the effort of something that once just happened, now I feel there is effort that I must give.

Little care I have shown in preservation of what I’ve had gifted, so instead I tempt fate with my good luck of health, with hope its stays beside me and in the tide it hasn’t drifted.

Weakened joints feel more familiar, and a few clicks echo as I raise to a slumbered stance. The once unbreakable, slowly becoming brittle, so even a warm bath of milk wouldn’t wash away the ache and distain,

with any hope,

or any chance.

What happened?, another question asked, as I look back on time past.

Remembering a young soul eager on becoming older at last.

Excited of the fact,

as if there was a belief and promised purpose.

This childish act,

has become outgrown it feels worthless.

He’s spoilt with time to spend,

as times value seems to be at the beginning and far from an end.

His future doesn’t feel defined for now, it still feels make believe, somewhat fictional, bordering pretend.

Maybe if then I’d realised that this search doesn’t start beginning, until it feels closer to an end.

Sometimes the right message can be the one we’ve held back sending for some reason, but then it suddenly feels right to only send.

If I could only share with you for what I’ve seen and learnt,

My mistakes and triumphs on a platter rather than a risk of being burnt.

Oh! How this would change everything so you could live a life worth living, a life to be respected, and therefore a life deserved.

For if I’d share with you what I’ve seen, maybe you would live the life you’ve earned.

Would your life be better though if I’d share what you haven’t seen? Or would you feel as hurt as I feel now, if I’d walked you through the depths not yet discovered, to places your footsteps haven’t yet been.

A dream maybe many of us have, is to go back as our younger self, knowing every trick within our bag. It’s like we are strangely telling ourselves the answers, but they are still met with the ignorance of a parent’s well intended nag.

So I sit here still silent, deaf to any whispers that touch my ear, whispering to my inner self I say maybe I will change, and things will be differently better this year.

Different is guaranteed and better to be viewed only by the beholder.

The only guarantee I’m feeling closer to is the one where I’m becoming older.

Why do I ignore what possibly serves me best, as I try to tell myself the good choices to make, they whistle past chest,

they hit me in my self belief,

like bullets into a vest.

I just know I see myself looking back at this very point and wishing. Wishing if only there was someway, any way, to tell myself to see, and if I could, only how!

I would say

“You just need to believe, my son, forgive yourself as you are everything as you are” and can be anything as you will, you just need to start living a life you love, and see who I see now, as you are enough to be loved deeply without question, it is only you that needs to see now, because if you don’t answer this question, you just end up being me wishing I-found a way to tell you how”