I had to have one of ‘those’ talks the other day. First I have it with myself, and then I have it with my prospect. I would prefer not to have the talk. But at least if I have the talk, it means I care. It means there is hope, yet sometimes the talk spirals into the end.
My life lives like an exhibition of evolving art. I am a crazed artist with a paintbrush between my teeth smearing thick oily colours across the canvas with my fingers. Breathing over my work exasperated with my vision. Not content to live an artificial half life like so many others (day in day out printing the same feature anesthetized in the monotony). The irony is pain actually exists in that fabrication.
I find people are attracted to me when they want their souls to be unravelled. I feel like an asshole watching them writhe in their self made bullshit stories about who they thought they were, or the bullshit mess they use to pad out their life instead of living it. I feel like an asshole because they seem to want me to tug on that first thread, and I can’t help myself but to heave it until it snags or works loose the pretty outfit they were wearing. The bullshit outfit.
The closer I get to something ‘normal’ the further I want to be away from it. I come with warning signs, bells, whistles, textbooks, journals, charts, testimonials, but still nobody listens. They all think it will be different with them, and that their approach will be fresh.
So I crack them open. And that action breaks them or makes them. Whatever happens, when I bump into them again at some point, I see the wound they carry from that time (I tend to meet them at their most vulnerable and destroy that image of what they thought they were). All real warriors carry scars from great wars, and that is what they are, women with the courage to fight for their freedom.
Truth, courage, freedom..
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