Catharsis Comes From Letting Go.

I have a right to repression. If I believe what I feel inside isn't true, if I can doubt myself to the point of becoming a separate embodiment to my own anxiety then surely I can stay with you one more night. It's hard to make the right judgement, but the distinction has already become too blurred to conclude what is right for myself. I don't want to let go. So I won't. They say catharsis comes from letting go, that I'll be happier freed from my mental prison. Yet I've found catharsis from unusual places; too strange to assume I could locate it somewhere normal. Seeing suffering can be cathartic. It reminds you that you aren't the only one. Just as loving you can bring cathexis. And that is why I'm on the fence. You may have imprisoned me, but I chose to be locked in.


2. My Evidence.

I'm going to send letters to you. Many letters. I have always tried to be open with you, despite the cage of subcortical structures I am trapped within. The irony is that what I have filtered through iron bars is thicker than a manuscript, but what I've always wanted to say to you, and to myself, is paper-thin. I guess I've just chosen odd times. Forgive me for that.


I want to first provide the evidence I have for loving you. Why my mind fools itself. I'm hoping for peace of mind, you see. Again, it's ironic since that is where I am trapped. Peaceful or not I am still enclosed. I suppose it's almost funny that way, always questioning freedom.

I have always felt lesser, compared to you. I still ponder my worth, to myself and to anyone else. I didn't think you'd see me in the way that you do. You always describe to me how much you are in love with me. I am usually overwhelmed by your kaleidoscope of vocabulary, so bright in a greyscale world. How you can find beauty in the details I am ashamed of. It is truly incredible and I don't think I've shown gratification for that. The way you find light in my eyes, reason in my stare, solace in my lips as they press against your own. 

In retrospect, all this evidence does is bring me guilt. How could I allow my mind to wander away from the euphoria that is you? How could I doubt us? That in itself is more astounding than anything you could say to me. That is, undeniably, the worst part. I still have more to write, I must press on. Even if it is with wet fingertips.


Making love. It's not...something dirty, when it's with you. It is one of the few means of escape I possess. A brief period of certainty. My mind cannot speak to me. I am with you. We are us. People believe it is easy to say that sex is your strongest connection to your partner, and I feel inapt for saying our connection isn't something like a glimpse into each other's eyes through pouring rain or a meaningful conversation of a mundane premise. I apologise to those people, for I can't deny that making love to you is what I hold dear. It is the only thing that can silence my head.



I feel as though I do nothing but make mistakes. That I provoke things that have no need to exist. My mind amplifies tearful scenarios and I just allow it. You tell me to stop; it's making you cry. It makes me cry every day.




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