I reek words that twist themselves around each other like bodies sliding intertwined. They float around my head in a John Nash fashion, flowing from my fingertips into sheets or keys into your eyes, out of your mouth and into my ears. 

Whatever it is that keeps me here lost in the fever of creation, I’ll take it. To say that we love without selfish interests is sheer hypocrisy, and I use that as an excuse to keep me still. To feel alive, to find grounding, to be home. If the purpose of love were simply to make another person happy, we’d give it away indiscriminately and be content with the happiness of friends, family, and undeserving lovers.  Instead we walk wearily around the familiar avenues of games with the hope that someone out there possesses the ability to give us what we need without trying.

But then again, I try. And you try. Is it lack of confidence in ourselves that keeps us stuck in a perpetual attempt to be the right person for those we desire? I believe it’s simply fear. And exhaustion. We’ve built ourselves strong and convinced ourselves that we will not settle, we’ve tired ourselves out searching for the recipient of that mad rush in our chests. Why risk losing? Give all, show all, be all. We try too hard, and then we lose all.

What is your beta? Finance states that the rate of return is directly proportional to the amount of risk attributed to each investment.  For the risk-averse, an investment in T-bills (considered as risk-free) is enough.  In the long run the expected returns are almost offset by  the rate of inflation, and you end up with a little more than you began with, but better sleep at night. 

Who wants to sleep? We follow the rush because it excites us, frees us, and questions all that we have built so far. We take risks and follow blind paths because we are drawn by danger and not by peace. But because it makes no sense to invest in a riskier asset for the same return, we demand more from the roads we traverse, call it “the expected premium for risk,” and say “This better be good.”

It would be so much easier to close our eyes and trust that the end can only be good.   We would, in fact, do that, but only if we were young virgins with no recourse but to be hopeful. I’d like to go on and weave my colorful dreams about the future that awaits, but I’m afraid to be questioned how I plan to follow through. 

And so I just do. I sit here with my words lining up to be given a chance to be born. In each line there is a degree of hesitation battling with certainty. I am certain about the way I feel, but hesitant to put it down on paper and, as you said, be vulnerable to attack. 

I reek words. It used to leak from a roof that I laid confident to be invincible, and I tried to seal it with silicone and putty, but to no avail. When I gave up my attempt to shelter myself from nature, it started to pour relentlessly and now I am left helpless, and drenched. Soaked in sweat, immersed in water, wading in danger. Drowning in my words and in the hope that exhaustion will find its way soon. Or maybe a touch which will leave me at a loss for that which swallows me whole.  That would be so much better.