Lost in the Plot


I just tried to inflict words that twist themselves around each other like bodies sliding intertwined lost in the plot. They drift around my head in an Angelina Jolie fashion, staring into her exotic eyes, into her sensual lips, speaking in tongues, sweet words out of her mouth and into my ears.

No matter what it is that keeps me here lost in the plot, I enjoy it. To say that I enjoy writing without selfish interests is sheer hypocrisy, and I use that as an excuse to keep me sane, to feel living, to find grounding. If I can write a few plots as easy as breathing, I would write everyday until my eternity pass away. I would be saving them in a bottle, just to capture words for someone to read later on. And, If the intention of writing were simply to make someone happy, I will give it away indiscriminately and be content with the happiness of who ever reads them.

But then again, when I try inflicting words, whether it's damn sexy, wistfully sad, or fucking delicious, there might be a misunderstanding. So, that keeps me stuck in a perpetual attempt to write about anything since most people have their own boundaries. It might be simply fear and exhaustion. I have built myself strong and convinced myself that I will not settle. I am tired searching for the recipient of that mad rush in my mind. Why risk losing? Give all, write all, be all. I try too hard, and then I lose all.

I probably go after the writing rush because it excites me, frees me, and questions all that I have built so far. I take risks and follow blind paths because we are drawn by passion. Not like some people, drawn by just fun with the expense of other people, worst is not even realizing it. But because it makes no sense to invest in riskier things for the same satisfaction, we demand more from the roads we cross, I would like to call it the expected premium for risk, and try to say this better be good.

It would be so much easier to close our eyes, with a big smile, get lost in the plot, and trust that the end can only be good. We would, in fact, do that, but only if we were young virgins with no recourse but to be hopeful. I'd like to go on and weave my mind, but I'm afraid to be questioned how I plan to follow through. And so I just do. I sit here with my words facing up to be given a chance to be born. In each line there is a degree of hesitation battling with confidence. I am confident about the way I feel, but hesitant to put it down on paper and be vulnerable to attack, since words can be devastating to some people.

I try to inflict words which is exposed, that I lay confident to be indestructible. I try to seal it with silicone and putty, but to no avail. When I gave up my attempt to shelter myself from words, it started to pour relentlessly and now I am left helpless, and drenched. Soaked in sweat, immersed in water, wading in danger. Drowning in my words and in the hope that exhaustion will find its way soon. I would trade all inflicting words of my tomorrows, for one single sweet word yesterday.

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