My Gorgeous Torture (Phoenix)

I've been watching the world unfold in front of me. It's like a movie and I haven't added my scene just yet. There's a frustration that comes with the idea of running out of time. "Making moves" overtakes the place of allowing moves to be made. I should mention, while it is frustrating to exist in this space, I feel excitement.

Excitement because, adrenaline is addictive. At least, it is to me. It allows me to breathe deeper while, at the same time, restricting me. The constant push and pull puts a sense of purpose in me. To fight through the tension, the friction, and the everlasting rub. Overall, it confuses me how much delight I take in my anguish.

A masochist maybe, but having expectations adds to that purpose. Striving for more balance in spirit, just as much as material. That pain from the past is a hindrance that I'm not exactly proud of. It's not that I don't want to release it, I just refuse to. Once again, this frustration is my shadow on cloudy days.

I'd be omitting a piece of truth, if I didn't say I'm influenced by society. I admit that I've had the desire to fit a description I didn't necessarily create. A description of success, given to me, that I've internalized as a part of my ambition. I smile as I think more about these pleasing agonies I've created and sustained. Will it be manifested? It is. Who's to say what that looks like? I am.

Yet it's that critique, that incessant "early bird chirping", keeping me going forward, fanning the fire. Those mirror moments when I know that look all to well, wheels and gears turning, I'm countering my clockwise logic again. Although it affects my mood and sometimes my interactions, I'm still confident that it makes me more whole to break it down first.

I find myself gazing off and forgetting what took me down that path before I'm reminded by the chirping. Let's call them "baby gaps", these quick moments when it's almost as if I am an infant looking at a new world for the first time. It's this blend, the gorgeous torture mixture of the discontent for being under construction with the obsession of perfection, that keeps me going.

My very existence is an ode to the mixture within me. An unspoken promise to stay indebted to it and to be listening for the chirping, always. I welcome the challenge of this agreement, as I watch the world form around the moves I'm making. While I'm unsure what exactly these outside forces are, I am certain of their ability to aid in the deconstruction of my current self. The necessary burning of self in order to rise from the ashes. Oh, gorgeous torture, what a loathing love I have for you.