With open doors
With a tounge that is twisted and tied, by knots of a kind, i have a summary that i might start a sentence, but i am just incapable of putting in the right words. It might seem that i am able to present my ideas in manners that have a certainty of truthfulness and evidence, but an emotion is much more complexed for me to express. It is a combination of my own experience and understanding of the word, but put together after all that trouble of description inside my head, and when i am face to face with a certain person, that same emotion overwhelms me, and my words just seem to fall apart upon what i witness before my eyes - i am lost for words.
In reality, this is only partially true. For i cannot say, or dare not say, what i intend to say. It brings me into a dilemma, and this dilemma conjures itself inside me, just waiting to be let out. But by that time, it may have just about been too late and i am lost in my own sad reminiscing of the past, of what happened - that lead me to be despaired in the first place. It is this that i find myself unable to overcome, unless with the help of a certain person. This one scar, i cannot heal alone - i need help. But not just from anyone. It is from only one that holds the keys to me. And for that person, i hope and await. I do things that i would rarely do, automatically for this one. As if there was some strange passion that gripped onto me, i am compelled to be of service.
But am i ready to hold onto that emotion again? Am i ready to face my own faces from the past? Am i ready to fight the mistakes that i have done before? But most importantly, is that one willing to be a part of me?
Every part of me has nothing to object. Everytime i lay to rest, inside my own sanctuary, where i would let nobody in, i find myself sending a silent invitation. If only one could just read my mind, and then say "yes", i would only have to show the road. Because, for her, the doors were already open.
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