there's no use denying that i get lonely. i am not lonely in being alone, but i have my moments. moments when i realize how strong and independent i am, and how fierce my will is, and how deeply bluegreen my soul is, and how vast my mind and warm my heart, and what i could do with these things: i could sit under a tree for days. i could speak snake. i could be anyone, do as they do, live as they live, and be no less inconspicuous. i could create masterpieces of motion and symphony and color and theory, i could flip like a gymnast and kill thirty assailants. i could die for someone. i don't know who.
the knowing that there is some ONE and feeling that i will meet her soon enough is cause enough to be lonely and hurt. i am not needy or greedy or empty or aimless, but i want, i desire, i hunger, i seek for someone i've never met. i've got so much in store for her that i can't stand waiting to just burst and fall all around her, and i prefer not to let myself dream of what i may have in store for me; but ours is not a world where we can freely give and receive in turn and be none the worse if our relationships falter. ours is a world where the few ruin everything for the many, where one would give and receive nothing in return on an hourly basis if one had so much to give as i do. ours is a world wherein we receive from our being more than from each other, wherein we have so much we take for granted and so much we cannot forsake that we are not free to give and trust as i would love to do.
i cannot be alone in my effusive benevolence and will to generosity. i may be rarely pure in that most good deeds do not go unpunished and most people have learned their lessons and been screwed over too many times to not be screwed up through the ceiling. i have a sense about me that knows benevolence and goodness and loves it without reserve. this sense argues with that in me which knows ignorance and corruption and is wary of its venom. i feel too much love bottled up in me, an inner tension of idealism and piety overrestricted, that leaks out given the slightest crack in the ice between us.
have you more venom than i? am i ¾ pure, that i should burn so forcefully and contain so much energy within, yet seem so innocuously cool and dark? do i wear my venom on the outside, that people fear to dive deep and swim inside my warm mantle; or is there so much venom in the world that i should be more giving of my surfeited love?
or is there so little good to spare that i should be even more frugal and conservative with it? No!! i give and give, and i go to sleep uncompensated, and i wake up full again. i spread myself thin, trying to cover all the angles and shape everything into a smoother softer surface, and i snap back to my cooled lonesome curled up ball and rest against my own roughened skin...and i regenerate, i conjure inner flame and pull the tide high and whip the winds and build my bones and return new. i grow, i strengthen, i wizen, i season, i learn, i adapt, i sharpen, i focus, i broaden and toughen and gnarl and roughen where i should, but i am still soft and pink and tender and sensitive and naive and weaker than i have to be.

i could move mountains

i could be what people dream of being
if only i had a reason, someone worth pleasing, someone better than me to support, to urge on, to resonate with. two people can keep a steady beat much more reliably than one. this is a long-term problem, because the mind wanders and grows tired of itself and hungry for a taste of the world, it burns and tears like a muscle and needs to rebuild itself with something it has to take from the world around it. it has to put out what it's digested, and maybe my shit stinks worse than i think, but i feed my brain some wonderful foods, and i have too much on my table. i could appreciate it better if i had someone else around who knew what it was like and appreciated it on the same level, but differently as everyone by necessity and the definition of their individualities must. my table is full but the guest seat is empty. or perhaps there are too many guests and none worth honoring with the other head seat; or perhaps i am waiting to be invited and honored myself...but no, my table is not so special that it should be reserved only for those who invite me to their's, truly i honor each in turn...but i hesitate now to give the key to the house to anyone, not because they would misuse it but because they would misplace it and never use it at all. what i have to give is worth more than something that is disposable; and if it proves otherwise, then i should keep it longer and make it better and save it for whomever will appreciate it most. anything well-kept can improve with age, and desperation will beget true brilliance and purifying honesty.
if my overflowings should only reduce me to a happy half full, the quarter overflown will not fall, MUST not fall where it wont be caught. too many cups are less than half and emptying for me to allow what i have to go to waste. and i will run dry someday, everyone seems to...so i should not gush thusly when work is to be done to rebuild my inner pressure; but the flame burns yet so bright that i sometimes find my pressure overwhelming and i must give light and warmth into my life and loved ones. times when one seems weak or overburdened or cold or lost or lonely like me.
i do have my shrouded side which cries to be seen and acknowledged as each of these, but it is the same side that has tasted venom, and fears it. it is the side that hides within me, from me, as i seek it out and wish to change it, it twists away and buries itself within me. it knows who it needs, but will not tell me or cannot tell me, probably the latter, because it doesn't know her name. it peers out from my bright black pupils, and stares rapaciously when they dim, always hidden behind my eyes where i cannot know it, under my skin where i cannot soothe it. it is something that would seep out of my pores if i were near its desired host, it would mingle with the air and fatigue her, and make her faint. some it might make swoon, but i should be so lucky as to find one who knows the difference, and feels that way, the same way i do, about stray cats and wolves. i would bite her, i would taste her blood, and smell her fear to know her better, and be nicer for the knowledge in the long run. a boundary untested is a boundary unknown, when as in real life no one will stand and draw the line for you. and boundaries define functions and enable their optimization. i would cross lines and draw scars and make marks and drop my full weight on her to learn what is mine and what is hers and what is ours and what is no one's.
perhaps then it is better if my fire burns bright, and smokes out those who cannot bear the heat and do not trust themselves, or scorches those who know no better and should not trust themselves. perhaps i am more dangerous than i usually admit to myself, and should appreciate everyone who knows their limits and shies away from me.
perhaps i am dimmer outwardly than i feel inwardly. perhaps i have a long way yet to grow, and am too blinded by my own light to see clearly and follow the procession deeper into the heart of the maelstrom. or perhaps my light blinds all else who look upon it and only i who hold it can be illuminated by it. perhaps i am the man with all i could ask for: comfort, confidence, strength, insight, wealth, perception and potential...and for all my Eden-like affluence, i could not resist the apple of knowledge, the Pandora's OTHER box of true treasures, all gleaming and leaping to be useful, if only to conceal the true curse sealed within,
the unshakable, unremovable, inescapable, indelible, incorrigible, unresolvable, intractable, immutable, incurable venom
of the insurmountable lodestone of doubt.

well as i doubt myself less, i feel i must doubt myself more, less for fear of that one move gone wrong than for a lifetime of moves not made. i feel i must doubt my own fullness, and be openly hungry. i should spill over with heat and weight until i am happy or half empty, then i can turn in again and be half full when i turn back out again. i feel like i have held enough in now that leaks are springing and unpatchable. i am overfull.
and emptying.

fuel may burn and become scarce; but it cannot be allowed to pool too high and drown its ignition.
the fire may burn brighter if less thought is wasted on waste: the steam may turn the gears more efficiently at higher pressure.
i must trust in the machinery and not fear it breaking. what i cannot fix will be replaced. an unused tool is as broken and functionless as one overused.