I often wonder to the scrawny, passion-confused boy I left behind. The one who always fights with his music–banging on the keys because he’s angry–angry at everything. I often wonder if he is still angry, but that is what makes me wary of him; forever wary of him.
He was a knot of a person. I had tried to untie him, but I fear there will always be a part of him that isn’t straight–isn’t smooth—and he will always be misunderstanding and rebelling against the basic rules of society. Do I hate him? No.
But I could never, truly trust him.
He tried to induce natural feelings and loyalty through logic, weaved to his own means. Little did he– does he– understand that love and trust are earned through experience and faith.
Fearful. He was fearful. A fearful man is not one to be trusted. It’s like Anikin in Star Wars. Fear corrupts and feeds evil. He is fearful, angry, lonely, and always roaring at the world for doing him wrong. Roaring and screaming and scowling and demanding–while talking kindly, smiling, and laughing.
The greatest knot of his being he holds close to his heart as a prize to be shown to only those he wishes closer to him. It is his intimacy, this knot. He insists it was other hands who tied him up so and begs to be released by his own means. But it is difficult to dive one’s hands into this great knot which is his heart without getting knotted yourself. I do not speak to him, because nothing I say will change anything. Speaking might also be dangerous, due to the knots.
For knots make wonderful nets.