Pelgris

I’m wide awake, killing time between one ill-conceived action and another. Don’t text, don’t email. Just the interminable waiting to hear back. Waking from intense dreams of my dream lover and our inability to see each other. Not enough time and we’re ripped away. Consciousness beats heartbeat on my eyes and I sit here writing. Don’t email again, it seems needy. But you just want to talk to someone and everyone you know is asleep. So you sit here writing and talking to yourself, anything to not make that smothering mistake. People see the insecurities and think that’s no kind of master I know about but I’m not a master at all times, I’m a switch and not a sociopath so I feel. It doesn’t mean I can’t be the top you need but I have never limited myself to being one thing and I won’t be doing that now. How much truth is enough truth and stepping over the line in a game of emotional chicken don’t play with me. I use your actions as the gauge for my own because unless it’s extreme to me, so very little these days, I will match you step for step until we are both plummeting off the cliff. But I’ve done this before and know how to land, so stop the Game it’s not worth it. Ask for what you want, be clear, and stop with the games. Or play games but know I only play in earnest. And still I write to not say the too much that lurks inside my head, hoping something to be said is what you’ll need to hear. But it’s a game of liar’s dice and you’re playing against yourself. Better to not play but there’s no one to talk to in my midnight’s rambling and I can’t quite the thought that the next thing I say will tip the balance. I should have my life together now, right? But I’m just starting to and who wants in on the beginning, but those are the stories I love the ones that tell you how they become as they do. This all too human figure become accessible, lovable as the icon was not. And I want to talk about archetypes and their place in our subconscious and I want to lose myself, my time in intense conversation about Black Books or who your Doctor is. But I’m just sitting here alone wondering if my kink and its frank display is what keeps you away or is it that I’m just restarting my life after the wreckage of my past. It’s the people who are there at the beginning that are held closest because they are through the wars with you. But I can’t know and I can’t ask because what if your day just sucked and you don’t want to strike up a conversation with this weird new person but maybe later but not if they push and I’m the weirdo overthinking and it just won’t shut off. I’m going to end up watching the sexy and damaged Patrick Jane on the Mentalist and go to work tired and ill prepared. And it’s inevitable, and should just give in. But I’m still writing, and though I’m winding down, I can still say something stupid. I feel like one of the plates I’m spinning is going to fall and I have a preference but if one falls might they all. And they are not plates, they are people and I can only be me and it’s out of my hands except to keep being and hope it’s enough.