A man said to me once:
“I’d give anything to know what makes you tick.”
I was playing enchantress, but that wasn’t the reason for which I asked back:
“Because I don’t get you” he replied.
“But wouldn’t that kill the passion, knowing me so intimately.”
“I don’t think so. Your spirit seems to be capable of carrying on the entertainment.” He smiled.
I was left with that smile. He was one of the kindest man I’ve met in my life, a true gentleman. Never laid a finger on me. We had very beautiful conversations together.
Every now and then I come back to his question. In my darkest hours, in the melancholic pursuit of memories, even in the (nowadays rather rare) explorations of future possibilities. What makes me tick? What is there that wouldn’t let go when I feel like I’ve exhausted all ideas, all tries? What is hiding under the deepest layer of my breadth, in that inner chamber I’m not even sure I know where it is, never mind not having visited it, ever? Who am I and why was I born for other than carrying pain which isn’t mine. It would be nice to know.
I miss having beautiful conversations. There’s so much talk and opinions around. I’m sometimes sucked into the whirl of politics and economics and the “fairness” of things, and I just want to scream
“YOU’RE SO FAKE!”
so inelegant, so silly, so dumb, so selfish… and I get caught up in the game! It’s unforgivable, this waste of time and energy.
I was born to love. I was born to be with like minded people, courageous and real. I was born for conversations and dance and music and the art of life. And I have allowed others to control my being, my dreams, to tell me what I should say and, more importantly, what I shouldn’t, how I should behave, even how I should feel. Did you know that ‘should’ is not real? Did you know it is the root of all evil and doubt?
I have decided. Love makes me tick. Love for people and things and places. Love for me. Love for God. God is love. God makes me tick. I like that.