It's been a while since I have felt the way I feel now. Something about the voice that is spoken pricks my insides with a residual feeling, a somewhat painful feeling that reemerges after being buried for so long; butterflies take flight, wings dusty from the hibernation in the deepest of shadows. Are they good? Are they the kind that will release my inhibitions and carry me to happier days? Are they bad? A relentless force that will gnaw at the tenderness of the scars that I have uneasily managed to stitch with the threads of time? I have come so far, yet part of me still tugs at the past, roots clinging to clads of dirt deep within the earth; each surrenders to the pressure, buckling under the baggage that is carried.
A nervous mind anxiously jumps through hoops in search of answers that aren't quite visible yet. The distance so far, but the connection so easily established. The lack of situational control feeds the, what were thought to be long forgotten, insecurities. The self-prescribed self control begins as do the thoughts that wander aimlessly through the miles and miles of barren misconceptions and doubt.
An open book didn't turn it's own pages, rather, it was touched in some way by a person who seemed trustworthy enough to allow them a glimpse at the words residing within.
