The Lilies I Subdued

A loving touch evokes a lost truth

I notice a weakness in myself. As she smiles at me and bumps into my shoulder, keeping the proximity to a minimum for an additional second or two, I feel her potential interest. It’s soothing. But it’s scary. All the weight of her love that she is able to manifest in this world comes back to haunt me as my worst nightmare, as something that could shake my whole foundation.

Wait. Back? It comes back?

I’ve only known her for a day, there is no place here from which something can come back from.

At this moment I realize, that the strange contradictory gap between the long forgotten feeling of infatuation and the fear, holds a darkness. It tells me that I don’t know what the gap contains, but I can find out if I look properly, for it is something that is already available to me.

Am I able to live the way I want — fully, if the motive behind my actions is controlled by fear?

Convincing reasons come up that tell me of how the persona holding up those defenses is an efficient apparatus for operating in this world. But the fact that fear controls a part of me still remains, and no amount of positive reasoning can eradicate that one single speck of fear.

An act of love initiates the flow, where more love will come flowing back to you. It has become easy to pour loving, but somewhat superficial, simply friendly remarks and actions to people. Always knowing, but perhaps not admitting, that I’m playing on the surface level, and avoiding anything deeper, closer to the heart. Playing it safe, and stopping these games whenever things get too close. Convincing myself that I live with an open heart. Suddenly, the presented persona of the man I wish to be fades, because it doesn’t correspond to the one who wears it. I become nothing but a pretentious actor, because I cannot uphold the qualities of the person I present to the world. I become an imposter.

A constant state of stress pulsates in the distance, threatening to strike if I unclench my fist and reveal the flower.

Fear of losing myself. Fear of it happening all over again.

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