Without it, you become an autonomous soul following social prompts to make it through the day, coming and going in people’s lives as if your presence doesn’t have any bearing on them. It is disturbing to think what you do to yourself when you lose the meaning of love. What I didn’t know was that there were just as many people lying to themselves for fear of letting anyone in – and I was one of them. I hadn’t seen anyone my age end up in an honest, healthy relationship and, detached from my family on the other side of the world, I had wrongly believed that people were constantly lying to each other to justify staying together so they didn’t have to face being alone. I had looked at them too objectively and they had lost their magic. No, the truth was I had never truly known what the words had meant to begin with. It isn’t true to say that I was unable to love at all, as there were people in my life I had great affection for. It was this vain attempt to mask my inability to connect that I completely lost the ability to say them with meaning. I had stopped saying the words to almost anyone except in jest. No wait, it’s more truthful to say that I believed the words I love you were hollow syllables people said to fake their way through relationships. No, this darkness is not as sinister as it sounds. I am wiser now because of it and it has become the architect of my unique perspective. I had affection for this antagonism, which was like an uncompromising friend testing my mortality and strength. You may not have been able to perceive it, but it was there serving as solace to me and the unrest of my mind. A prison to you, but an arena to my own misunderstood contemplations and afflictions. This pain was more like a hunger, not far from the label of addiction.
Erika d double shot of love skin#
It was not self-deception but unrelenting honesty that cut through the nerves of my skin into the blood in my veins, setting in motion a new path. Once excruciating and torturous, they’ve matured and become the source of much enlightenment. You stare at them perplexed, but as I gaze at them they unveil realms of my imagination. I admit, the scars on my flesh aren’t charming to anyone, but they’re emblems of my life’s narrative. I would not be complete without it and so it is sewn into my life with a fragile Zen-like thread. It is, after all, a component of my character. I adopt it as any other part of the human experience, and I am not ashamed to call on it for inspiration. It crawls beneath your skin, indulges in pain, and scrambles reasonable judgment into chaos. It leaves a mark on you that is as permanent as any scar and as deep as any wound. It’s a state of mind, a place where you view the world within its context. I’m not talking evil, but a blackness that can dwell in your soul, lurking in suspicion and toying with your heart. I will share a personal truth with you darkness is not so intimidating once you’ve resided within its confines.
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