Feral R. Wilder
Who we truly are is found between the lines of script, painted into the greys, beyond shades of black and white. Truth is always more captivating than the lie... and the world we create within ourselves is just as real as anything outward.
A Love Letter;
I'm angry with you... but I'm more angry with me! I'm angry with you, because each time you tell me "No!", I can still feel in your arms that you mean "Yes!" But I am more angry with myself because each time you tell me "No!" I try to tell myself "No!" when every part of me, really means "Yes!"
We can call him "B"!
He wasn't talking about me... or, he didn't think he was talking about me. How could he be?! we barely knew each other. He was talking about someone else, someone he knew before... in another life. He was talking about a woman, a first love. He was talking about someone who became the model in his mind for everything he wanted in another person... everything he wanted to be in love with, all in one package.
Rough Cut Jewels
In my hands, I hold a vessel with no lid, and no way to entrap its contents. I squint my eyes, peering into it's shadowed depths. Inside I see a glint, a hint of something... almost a glow. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see two shapes. Golden-hued, seemingly lit from within. They are not sparking or shiny. They are not clear or clean. They are rough. The gems have chipped edges, sharp corners and are covered in layers of muck. It's so hard to see their amber-colored beauty that illuminates from within.
Who's Your Daddy (?!)
He never laid a hand on me... not even once, well; except that one time when he grabbed me by the throat and threw me against the truck because he couldn't find his cigarettes. In his defense, I HAD taken them, at the baiting of my older step-brother. And, it wasn't all bad... It was probably this instance that helped me realize, being a smoker isn't that high on my list of priorities. And more than the choking and throwing part, I think it was the public humiliation of being reprimanded in front of my stepbrothers and cousins, and the feeling of being betrayed, when it was my cousins who wanted the cigarettes and my step brothers who pressed me into taking them, but none of them had anything to say about it when I was hanging, feet dangling in the air, suspended by my father's one hand around my neck, in the driveway, against the side of his truck.
Made For Living
From the first time human skin set foot on frigid snow or sun-scorched sand, it was clear to us as a species that bare feet simply WOULD NOT DO! It was then, that the evolution of footwear began. Born from necessity, the first shoes were nothing more than leather and fur, fashioned into a hap-hazard sheath from the elements. For centuries upon centuries after, this simple, yet effective remedy was deemed "good enough", but soon the world would change. With shifting style, status, and social standing our footwear had no choice but to change as well. After all, we can't have women in elaborate gowns going to masquerade balls in fuzzy slippers, in a style that hasn't evolved since we were still arguing over property lines with Neanderthals.
Remember When? Remember when Life was fresh, sensations were new, and we were still seeing and feeling things for the first time? Do you remember life before defeat, before heartbreak, before loss? Remember when the sun seemed brighter and each new day more inviting... more ready and baiting, to be conquered? Do you remember the insatiable hunger for just "being alive"?
Cars, Books, Jewelry… and men; I have always loved things with scratches and dents, a little bit of rust and dust, with stories to be told within the imperfections that show experiences not taken for granted… and a life well-lived. I’ve never been drawn to things that are shiny and new. I don’t want to be careful with you, the way one would be careful with a new paint job. Taking life delicately, because you are afraid of taking a scratch… is not, never has been, and likely never will be, the way I live.