Contradictions

Sometimes I wonder if everyone's insides are full of contradictions. If everyone longs for what they hate and loves deeply what scares them.

Barefooted I like to walk when I stroll my mind’s paths. Sometimes near endless blue oceans and sometimes enclosed in a cage. And somewhere in between, on the border, I walk a tightrope. Step by step. If sometimes I lose my way, I am not scared, wherever I walk to I am always there, in the same cliff, the same chasm. Sometimes I stand on the edge and look at the vastness. The emptiness. I’d like to know what’s hidden inside it. In this absolute, vertical but at the same time unknown, undefined, indefinite, full of fear. I deeply breath its fresh air and I suffocate. I guess there is freedom in suffocation, or suffocation in freedom.

I often think of letting go, allowing my weight to drop in the void but then I always smile bittersweetly. Only for a few seconds I flirt with the idea, a few moments walking on the edge before I decisively turn my gaze to the damp soil and lay on the ground. I like its smell. Its known, safe. Every sound of it is mine, or maybe I belong to it. I close my eyes and feel the earth swallowing my body until I become its blood and my insides pulse following its rhythm. I like its warmth but...but sometimes, I become its root and it chokes me.

What am I scared of the most? Why?

What would happen if I removed this massive, limiting binder that I myself wore? What would the beat of my heart sound like?

Who would I be in the unknown? Who would you be?

I was scared, so I closed my eyes and ignored the abyss inside me. But no one has ever truly lived with a white peplum blocking their view. I sometimes attempted opening the lock of the predefined jail of my mind and all I found was a wall. So I stayed there; safe, empty, a captive of myself. Other times, I allowed the wind to pick me up and as my body lingered in its angry, manic movements and my insides bled and fractured, there, in the middle of catastrophe I found peace.

But really, which side of the wall is my true form resting at? And in the end, who is the one that controls and who the one that rebels? Can it be that the one that enforces boundaries is the one trying to break them? Or is it maybe inevitable that the one who locks the door throwing the key, to be the one looking to escape? Because deep black is closer to white that to any grey and the edges are always parts of the same coin. And maybe full control or the lack of it always send the guilty one exiled in the same island.