The strangest secret

Prior to what you are now reading, in this spot, lay a rambling but on point and highly personal reflection of my mindscape in poetics.
But I didn't save!

So we shall remove emotional attachment to the lost words and move on. Sighing in subtle discontent.

Here I declare, with the reinforcement of Earl Nightingale's words in his classic speech 'The strangest secret', I am engaging in more connection.
I'm tired, so tired of being frightened to extend myself and touch others, just saying hey or what's your name or even smiling. I lay indented in the recesses of my mind unable to connect, unless enticed out by beautiful people whose self animation I can emulate. 
I feel pinboarded, dagger staying my true self in torturous stagnation dragging the bottom while talking un-climbable mounds of irrelevant preaching, fingering the blame satisfying Archons but maddening is the play by play.
Safe spaces are contentment traps, wrestling you comfortable instilling false senses of negotiated freedom from responsibility. One man's resignation into direction is another man's diving board - one is calm in known waters, known by something somewhere. Others are treading depths, unsure of up or down or how long one should remain under to 'get' where he is.
Threads in the fabric, weaving our own course. Patterns exist for the fulfilment of an idea that weaves beauty easier for parallel threads, trust and it shall direct you.
So, I am endeavouring to make the effort of acknowledgement and engagement - Affording Humans the same delight of intrigue I display for my own thoughts. Putting myself out there, it hurts as much not approaching as it may to experience rejection; Infact, it is more painful than rejection - Rejection with the knowing that you didn't even try.
This is my one weakness. I am alone by will of defence and paranoia not by factor of existence. I fail to connect, I fail to relate, I fail to JUST DO IT. My inner Monkey is a sad Monkey, relenting for companionship and as I mentioned before, just to reach out and touch someone. 
I wanted to give the Chicken/chip store girl a sly 'You have lovely eyes' but I acted as I do, silently and smiled my way to the door, satisfied for that moment with simply the thought of reaching out in such a way.
This behaviour has appeased my distaste with experience for long enough. I am journey and that I shall spread.
Perfectly apt is an argument of self fated disdainful living, entirely. Totally. That is the case. I here state, I was thus spoken am, now speak faithful I am.

Trust and identify convictions with an assuming of prime position, convictions are the death of education.

- Ryan Dickinson


Ryan Dickinson