The way you dance

8-24

It’s funny how the waves of creativity come and go.

I’m enjoying being objective, digging deep into self-analysis mode. It occurs to me, as it occurred to me yesterday listening to a friend talk, that there is literally no such thing as perfect objectivity in dealing with self-analysis... but how useless of a train of thought is that, right? It’s a self-analysis of how self-analysis is intrinsically flawed.

Just writing that sentence makes me roll my eyes.

Anyway it’s pretty obvious that a part of me loves drama, but in a quiet way, so that only I am affected.
That’s why I have the dreams that I do, dreams that would make innocent minds gasp and cringe.
Dreams I probably shouldn't be having, sure, and that I probably wouldn't choose to have, but as I cannot control these dreams, I see no reason why I shouldn't enjoy them.

I rather like living this double life.

By that of course I am referring to the ways that I present myself, passively, to the viewer so that any such onlooker may create their own impressions of me and move along, never knowing that the impressions they have were premanufactured especially for them by a socially calculating mind.

I rather like living as an ambassador of surprise.

Back to objectivity:
I enjoy pondering the small personality changes I have undergone through the years, and who might be to blame for each of them. Who is behind the way I like to silently watch the people I come into contact with? I used to boldly interact with little care to consequence. Who is behind the way I have no care for social mores, apart from acting in a socially acceptable manner? There is a coldness, a selfishness I did not expect when I was younger.

Luckily I have it under control.

I wonder who is to blame
for this primal creature that breathes
heavily, breast heaving, underneath
this prefabricated exterior.

sleepstate dreamscapes
of panting gasps and sweat
of things that are wrong
Dreams that fluster
that make me blush just in the recollection
that make me want 

She speaks through my eyebrows
each lift a vulgar statement of
desire, unfulfilled intent, underneath
this exterior that is determined to behave