There are times that I have thought of myself as an onion. Multiple layers for one to pull back yet no certain way to know how many layers remain. The art of allowing individuals in yet knowing that they still don’t truly know you. It is not a game, or a choice, just a way of being, simply me. Having different layers for multiple people in my life honestly doesn’t seem that different from most people. Yet I know as a Scorpio things get more complex the deeper the layers go. An onion can be unbelievably sweet when caramelized, add flavor to dishes, the perfect garnish even, but it can also make you cry, sting, hurt. It is still an onion.
I love red onions with their often dusty, dirty, outsides. Who would know that with just a quick peel, the skin is a beautiful purplish red. The flesh is white tinged with red. Even more interesting about these onions is that they lose their redness when cooked. They can also be stored 3 to 4 months at room temperature. Reminiscent of why you shouldn’t always judge a book by it’s cover. Sometimes the most cherished things are a bit dusty. Beauty is often crafted/developed through toil. Losing the redness as it’s cooked, implying that with a little warmth even the stains will disappear. Lasting months showing patience and loyalty in it’s ability to endure. I can see me there.
This post prompted by a late night/early morning chill across my back. Cold enough to harden my nipples but not enough to make me move. The chill gave me something to feel, prompted thoughts. I haven’t written a true poem in quite some time. The type of poem that makes my heart beat with excitement and is easy to recite because I feel that it’s just “that” dope. I have only gazed papers with sentences that others found poetic though they lacked the strength to move me. And here in the early morning hours my fingers yearned to think for themselves. To breathe a sigh of release across a computer screen, loud enough to free the silence in my heart but the only thing there was the chill in the air. And then I remembered. I can only write what I feel. Writing has always been a form of expression for me. A release. Often expressing love, hurt, pain, lust, or anger. At this time I do not believe that I feel any of the above therefore my fingers are mute.
And I’m not talking about the love I have for my family/friends or the anger I felt when that idiot cut me off on the highway. No, I’m talking about feelings that shift your spirit and resonate in your soul. I open from the outside in, however I close from the inside out. In this time I have discovered one of my weaknesses… I’ll keep it to myself.
And here we shall end so I can take a nice hot shower with lavendar.
Good morning night