I trust that I cannot trust myself. I say one thing and deliver another. I cannot be trusted to maintain consistent emotion as I’m basically confiding in my own insecurities. My thoughts follow me in a distractingly hopeful song wishing well despite the redness in my soul. I lace lies with my heart strings convincing myself that existing on a flat line is safe. Basic. Vacant. The blurry boundaries holding me underwater search for sharper focus to escape the sympathetic self scolding. This shit hurts. It feels wreckless inside. Recovery risks redundancy as each habitual mistake is committed with precision impulse.
Trust is for those who have it all figured out. Amused by that general statement, I’ll keep searching for a way around my maladaptively flawed code. I’ll search for the words to break the silence, unpacking the heavy content and allowing my prose to spill carelessly on the blank page cutting my soul open to reveal the story inside me. Realization is liberating. The slow release of raw expression examines each memory in specific detail. Listening to the bewildered inaudible voice whisper from my soul in desperation cryptically quoting the buried past. I can’t disguise the flood of emotions. The damage is suddenly evident as the dam bursts letting unwelcome tears part from my eyes. I’m consumed by the harsh echoes of my raw and empty character. This is the end of the old me. Broken. Conscious. Awake.