Contemplating...

I need. Constantly I need. Mental provocation, beautiful pictures, interesting conversations, something to busy my hyperactive brain with. I need something to keep me occupied. Boredom is not an option with so many different interests and yet I am tired of being the only one to keep myself busy all the time. Someone else should do that too. Someone other than me, a third party.

Sometimes I see all those people in fancy clothes and wish I could go out. The thought makes me very excited. Yet, whenever I do go out, the excitement soon dies as there is no-one gutsy enough to approach me. And even if they do come, they are just normal people, full of phobias, insecurities, stuff they try to hide. They are pitifully plain inside, even if outside they hold some promise. Yes, beauty is a form of genius and desire the only god I'll ever allow to drag me around chained. Yes, I am arrogant and conceited. I am pride and wrath from the seven deadly sins. I will not judge people for being plain or boring, but at the same time won't touch them with a six foot pole. No-one gave me my knowledge for free, no-one made me mature by magic. I have won every single bit of knowledge and maturity that I possess with effort, disappointment and pain, so forgive me for being demanding as to whom I spend time with. I am not average. But there is a cost to all this. I am alone. I have friends, but when I lie in bed at night, there is no-one in those dark hours. No friend and no lover can kill this beast late at night. My loneliness feeds me and kills me at the same time.

I know it is all part of the maturing process. I know I have to be patient and not worry. I know all those things. It does not make it any easier. Knowledge not accompanied by facts offers little or no comfort. I feel that I cannot connect to people on any level anymore. I don't know why. Time passes and I get lost deeper into the world of archetypes. Problems my friends have move me little or not at all and I have to do what is expected from me while wondering inside why I feel indifferent if not impatient with them. I go half hardheartedly through the motions with them while I may burst to tears while reading an article or a book. Is it me holding back? Have I become incapable of befriending and feeling for others? I really don't know.

My beautiful dragon, do you sleep curled, like I do, licking your wounds and shame? Would you share your shame? Since love is out of the question, then perhaps we can lick each other's wounds.

Come.