Living Free

You can make excuses for how to live or you can live.

I choose to live. It's often people disagree with my choice and quite often I remind them that it's not theirs to make. 

I wanted to be angry, last month or the month before that, when an old friend tells me that I'm imprisoned and literally the only way out is to write. It's amusing because I do write, but it's not freedom according to him, because it's everything I don't want to write. Yet I am writing so I must be free. 

We claim to be free but are we? 

I know my friend thinks he is right and I'm not free. 

"So, it's easy... just write a way out." he says. 

This is out. This is freedom. Why doesn't it feel liberating to do as he demands?

Nothing you force yourself to do is freedom. 

Freedom is an illusion. 

Yet everyone loves an illusion. 

It’s an illusion that my friend has in their mind thinking about how or why I am doing or rather not doing. 

It’s not silence or guilt... it is living, just simply living, that has created this impasse between writing what it is necessary as opposed to what I want. It isn’t a prison but I am not free in the way that his illusion needs me to be. 

Use your mind not your reaction and you’ll see there is nothing more than your imagination that you’ve let run wild.

This is something I wrote about pointing fingers...

Do you live your life or focus on how others live theirs? 

Enjoy! 

Kisses, m.

You 

(9-28-2011)

“You” 

He says this word pointing his finger telling me where and when it needs to change without using any other words. 

I like when he uses words. But he’s not using them this time. 

No explanation. No request made. 

This time I’m supposed to know what’s happening with the shift of his wrist. 

One finger pointed at me. Three pointed back at him. 

All three fingers are telling him what he wants to tell me. 
I wish he would simply tell me. Ask me. Treat me like a person who he said he once cared for. 

I don’t like this. This is like walking in the dark where these actions we make aren’t any clearer. 

“Clearer?”

 He says when I tell him I can’t see any clearer than before.

Before all this when I said something to him and no one else. 

No one that mattered when I said those words for only him. They still won’t matter if I tell him again. 

Because he won’t hear my words and everyone who isn’t him can still hear them. 

They’ll listen. They’ll hear all the things he’ll never take in because he’s afraid.

And he'll use my words for him against me because he’s afraid and wants to hurt me.

Hurt and facing those who think my words are without logic.

It isn’t about them. It isn’t clearer. 

“Listen…”

He says softly before lowering his hand.
I listen and wait for his words that have yet to come. 

Knowing full well if there’s a chance, I continue to listen.

I listen and hope that they don’t mistake their words for his and my words for them. 

Words aren’t as powerful as his actions. 

Actions that calmly tell me all I need to know before he says it once more quietly.

“You”