Little nightmares are coming true.
My heart stocks for a second. My throat tightens. Breathe. This is life. Carry on.
My fingers feel cold. Or numb? I’m not sure. Can’t tell the difference.
A tiny notification on a little screen.
Probably meaningless, you’re over-interpreting things again.
Here it is. A stunned pain, slowly trickling in. The shock cracks the indifference I’ve built around my heart. Forgotten. Of course. I almost managed to convince myself that I didn’t care anymore. Almost.
But my dreams give my feelings away. A recurrent pattern. My subconscious processing at night what I’m ignoring during the day.
This is the price.
It’s easy to exclaim idealistic statements with a bold heart (‘I rather be brave, love deeply and get hurt in the process than live a protected life in fear.‘) and follow them. As long as things are fine and I’m in stage one, being brave, or two, loving deeply.
Then I get the bill. Stage three. And I realise that getting hurt sounds more poetic than it feels.
Fuck this. Hurt comes with shame for my decisions and actions, and is there anything worse than shame?
Regret and self-hate.
But there is no room for such things when I follow my heart and do what feels right. No matter how much trouble it causes. Honesty is worth its price.
As if I had a choice and could choose safety over honesty.
A little smile, absent eyes. My fingers are warm again.
(what an irony that I’ve written about this before, six months ago, and it’s happening all over again. the right path comes with a high price.)
self-portrait taken with the help of my love