Acrobats of Fear

"And when you're afraid of someones judgement you can't connect with them. You're too preoccupied with the task of impressing them."

~ Amanda Palmer, "The Art of Asking"

Yup, I've been there and done that.

As a matter of fact, I just had an epiphany about how I've been unconsciously (hence the epiphany part) playing up to someone. 

I did this because I believed them to be a power house of influence.

I thought that if they didn't approve of me I'd be crushed under weight of their wicked and well respected tongue.

I was afraid.

As the film of my jumping-through-fiery-hoops-days plays out, I'm astounded at the lengths I've gone to to be included, liked and A-listed; all out of fear.

So desperate was I to have the merit of their grace that I became blind to the fact that the relationship was one sided. 

That the words they used to express themselves were mean spirited, angry and pessimistic; all guised under the cloak of humour. 

That they regularly made fun of things I hold dear.

In my eagerness to wear the robes of cherished follower, I missed connecting with who, and how, they really are.

The unwinding of my contortionistic endeavours has revealed many important insights. Not the least of which being that I truly believed that I enjoyed that person, and I did; the scared, battered, little one, that dwelled deep within, did like them - she was too afraid not to.

She thought that choosing herself over a false god made real through their capacity to influence, was punishable by death.

And so, she gave herself away.

She crippled her stance, blurred her vision, ignored her heart and lived in a mind sticky with fear.

But, that was then and this is now.

Now, she stands tall.

She's decided to impress herself first and is living the strength of heart, clarity of vision and power of choice that comes with every piece of garbage she empties from the trashcan of her mind.

Watching her spring forth and bloom anew, I once again learn that my connection with others is only as real as the connection I have with myself.

With love,

Jasmine I

The Lie of a Rose

The sign said, "Come on in and smell the roses", so I opened the door and walked in.

Barely in the store, I was greeted by the shop keeper, "Can I help you?"

"I thought I'd take you up on your invitation, I'm here to smell the roses.

"The proprietor's blank stare was guarded and sprinkled with a hint of fear.

"The sign in your window says to come on in and smell the roses."

"Oh." This sound was uttered with the disappointment of a kid whose lunch box is filled with sardine soup instead of the PBJ she was hoping for.

I didn't let the weight of the woman's mood settle into me. Instead, I walked around the rose store sniffing its collection of fancy, colourful blooms.

With each hopeful inhalation I waited.

I waited for the fragrance.

I waited for the perfumed note of flowered seduction.

I waited to be carried away on its aromatic story - but nothing came.

Nowhere in that shop of roses could I find the promise that had my feet cross the threshold in the first place; the gift of scented roses.

As I completed my round of olfactory investigation I thanked the now invisible keeper of the roses and walked back out into the cold, grey noise of the city street - and I inhaled.

The heady bouquet spoke a thousand wordless languages; the car exhaust spewed its tale of life's erratic flow filled with stops, starts and uncontrollable circumstances.

The icy aroma of snow foretold of shovels, bruised knees and the relished warmth of lovers arms and fireplaces.

Overly perfumed people huddled by; cloaked in nose assaulting clouds of bottled confidence disguised as cologne, each hoping to hide their unique brand of shame, guile and guilt.

The next time I walked by that store, the sign was gone and the windows were dark but such is the way of false invitations; they arrive on wings and fall into ruins.

With love,
Jasmine I

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The Idea of Me

I've been dissolving stories.

Tales of woe, passion and purpose.

Ideas of self that seemed so real, enticing and accurate.

Motifs on love, right vs wrong and the how to's of living.

As these once considered allies of comfort dissolve I recognize the disruption they've caused. 

The havoc they've wreaked.

The suffering, chaos and futility they've sown.

The maddening harvest of pain, co-fusion and insecurity they've created.

"They" being the illusion. The story. The thought.

Not that the thoughts, stories and theatrics themselves are the source of the suffering I've lived and re-lived on the ferris wheel of thought. 

No. Not them. Not that. 

But the dainty footsteps taken into the pond of belief that quickly turned to an undertow of becoming and believing; becoming and believing the character I had created.

The scripted responses to an unreal world developed by the intoxicating illusion that any thought is real. That is holds weight. 

And so I wonder if this abiding awakening that I seek has begun and the idea of seeking is laughable as it too dissolves in a fiery solution of truth.

Ideas live.

Ideas die.

And I am just an idea.

Living and dying in a free fall called life.

With love.

Jasmine 

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A Loyal Lovers Embrace

Dark and steaming you enter me
Your seductive taste upon my tongue
Sighs of satisfaction escaping my moistened lips
Deeper into my willing and open body
Your flowing movement excites and thrills
I can feel my mounting ecstasy
Like a thousand hearts beating in my chest
I am quickened by the gift of your eager embrace
Your generosity compels me to motion
As I pour myself another cup of your caffeinated love

Ode to my dear friend, Coffee.

Jasmine I

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