Hold my hand. Write with me.

Being selfish is too easy. I wish it had been something that was hard to do, because I don't like repeatedly looking over my shoulder to see that black ball tied to my foot with the word 'selfish' written on it. It drags me down, and makes me feel bad about myself, right until the moment when I turn my head back to the front and forget all about it.

It's much more grand to think more of others and spend less time focusing on your own personal needs and wants.
I love reading. And writing. Playing with words. I know of things that have made people love me, and have made me love people. And words are my way of being thankful for all the love, all the happiness, and helping create more of both in a world that lacks an understanding of love and kindness and selfless good deeds. Within and without geographical borders.
Today, I make it my life's journey to love. To hold hands, to create Us, and to use that power and that magic to be the person I know I want to be.
Love.

Flipside

Holy moly me oh my.
They gathered swaying hems as they stumbled into the grime, sand-blood squishing between short and pudgy and long toes. Straw blew in whirling circles trying to scrape and scratch strawberry-cheeks.
Whispers of haunting floated into the open mouths of wailing water nymphs with their seaweed woven garments and thorny crown wreathes. Blue-green-bluishgreenish heaven of a different kind. Hollow eyes.
There was absent light, and upside down chartreuse glow worm maggots - fluorescent and vomity. White fire paths burned on the steel water surface in straight streaks. Mostly. Fever pitch wailing and then a sudden lightning-cracking silence. Tastable, hearable silence. Dense dank heavy water silence. Pops of bubbles erupted in the air, frothed seawash rolled onto the bloodied toeprints, and jetsam from the moment's frolicking carved deep into ridges of memory.
It began.

You are my happiness.

The world, it seems, does not forgive over-sensitivity. Nor does it recognize a person's need to be heard, or rather the needs of a person that need to be heard coming from his/her mouth.
You're quietly walking along on one of life's little paths when you're grasped by the shoulders hard and shaken up. You protest that it's not what you want, not what you need, not how you can be treated. But you are told that your fragility is your problem.
You delve into words you've said and words you've written and try to trace patterns back to your heart. Try.
You look back at holes you mended and then created again and suddenly there are thick, dark rainclouds over your head. You try to beat the oppression, and then make yourself realize you have to lose to win. Or perhaps just lose. Maybe that will bring peace. Or an end.

Struggling for air

She lay on her back, her hands resting flat on her chest, fingers lightly pressing against the curves of her ribs. The flesh right under the skin of her right hand was gently pulsing, beating with a rhythm that was being borne from below. It was striking against her breathing, sometimes in time with an exhalation, and sometimes out of sync. Strange that the heartbeat could be felt so strongly towards the right of her ribcage, so far from where her heart was supposed to be. It was a heartbeat foretelling a heart straining to burst out, to beat independently and strike the air with even marching beats.