Pushing buttons he’s not going to like.

It is possible, yet far more complicated than being alone, to be with someone and to feel entirely afraid of being anything but alone.

This being with someone pushes boundaries, fears of being together, fears of opening up and having it all fall apart again, fears of knowing how and when to express or reciprocate. Fears of the anxiety that creeps up and stops you like a crushing rock set gently upon your chest. It creeps in and settles in your mind, taking the will power of a deep thick carefully engineered concrete wall to fend it off, hold the sanity in, and to walk across the violent chopping glassy surface.

Loving is the easy part. Saying it is the hard part. So I try to show him. I kiss him, I snuggle with him. I hold him loosely so as to avoid too fast an attachment that is already developing. I am picking up new social hobbies so I can be a deeper part of his world. I fear him becoming a deeper part of my world. My logic is that maybe if I can find out who he is and feel comfortable there, he can find out who I am and feel a similar way. Then, somehow, we will be able to survive the flood waters when they come.

I have plans. I have plans to be, to go, to do, to become, for I have been promised these will be because of who I am. I have made plans that have been set in place prior to him even entering my world, those plans now having been modified and yet still modifiable, to become something different. I see the important thing here being flexibility. To incorporate new concepts and ideas within the process of carrying out plans. Bending and not breaking, seeing and not running, loving and staying.

You thought it’d be possible to remake something out of a rock? I already tried, and to sore disappointment it is valued far less coming from the hands of the owner than the originating hands of a salesman. I tried to save you from pain and anguish that you experienced anyways, resulting from a rescinding action opposed to returning an owned item. Taking an owned item back to the salesman who doesn’t hold a simple return or exchange policy is rigidly and psychologically flooding, like a dam holding back too much emotional water, running off to surrounding plains, effecting every detail of the landscape, pushing away life, flattening strong historic trees, thinning out fertile soil, burying entity beneath a flooding tumult of restless death. The rock sits in a box, underneath the tumult, underneath the restlessness, underneath the entity which bore it. But even the rock is not alone; it sits with another precious metal beneath it, procured by a similar method the first was obtained. They sit together, closed away and protected by a box, buried.

I made a suckers choice.