It's a lie.
When he claims and swears and declares his heart is dead. Decimated. Dust on the breeze of his allegedly evaporating soul.
He knows it's a lie.
Not some mistake or misunderstanding. It continues to beat. Pulsating hard, longing to match rhythm with another damaged heart.
That is not a lie.
His heart has been damaged. Tread on with thoughtless words and contradictory actions, but he is not innocent. He never fully gave himself to another.
He wishes this was a lie.
Always holding a piece of his heart-soul back. Buried deep within him. Unable. Unwilling to completely trust his own emotions or those of another.
This is why he lies.
He doesn't see the point. He knows he has nothing to offer another. Nothing to contribute to a joint endeavor. Better to be alone. No damage done to anyone when it is realized he is the pathetic loser he has always known himself to be. Professional nothing. Slipped through the cracks long ago, making him meaningless in the now. Staring empty out the window of tomorrow, patiently waiting for life to be done with him. Waiting for the void to reclaim its lost one, who should never have been allowed to escape in the first place.
This is his truth.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Near the end of 2005, I realized how atrociously sporadic my reading habits had become. I would read a book or two, but then months would pass before I read another. Not sure why this was, but I hated it. I love reading, so I made my first ever New Year's resolution. I would read one book a month in 2006, no more, no less.
My thought was that I needed structure to resuscitate my reading habits. If I overdid it, I would burn out or make excuses. Oh, I read two books this month, so I'll skip next month. That would've eventually destroyed my progress, sending me back to sporadic reading and the guilt over it.
Thankfully, I held fast to my resolution, and now, I read continuously. Rarely a day goes by between books, unless I need to emotionally decompress or seriously contemplate what I just read. Yes, I read only one book at a time, and I often take my time with each one. I find I enjoy and retain more of the book this way. Plus, I feel the author has my undivided attention as he or she weaves me into the fabric of the story.
Now, in the year 2015, I find my writing to be atrociously sporadic. I haven't blogged much lately, which I hate. So, I'm making a non-New Year's resolution. I will publish at least one blogpost a week from now on. Fiction. Non-fiction. So-called poetry things. Inane ramblings. Whatever. The posts don't have to be long, just so long as I see each one through.
So, hold onto your unmentionables because this might be a bumpy ride!
Thank you for your time and patience.
P.S. I know this writing resolution isn't as structured as my reading resolution, but I believe it will personally help me in the long run, or it won't. Only time and my determination can say for certain.