Layers

I noticed, I'm covered in layers - the scarier the situation I'm in, the more layers I pile on top and hope I won't be hurt. The more threatening it is, the thicker is my defense, the tighter I pull at the ends of coldness and apathy - wrapping them around my face to appear "put together". The more uncertain I am, the longer I take to get out - probing the ground with my feet, stocked in wooly harshness. The more unstable the walls, the deeper I hide my hands, covering them up in "don't even try humiliating me, I'll punch you like a sand bag". I pull on layer upon layer, never knowing how much is enough, putting yet another one on top, buttoning it up neatly, so that not a crack is open, not a sliver of bare skin is showing through. So that there is no place to poke me - you can poke me all you want, I won't feel it. Then I venture out, hoping it will work. Hoping others won't notice.

Of course they don't. They're busy clothing themselves in their own layers, to come across as confident, as self-assured, as impenetrable. We all are. We have grown the first one when were little, then another one years later, and another, and another - they don't even itch anymore, we've so gotten used to them. And we're scared shitless to bare our bodies - down to the skin - to be vulnerable, to be open, to be humble. To let everyone see what it is we are really made of. No, it won't work. We will get hurt again. We can't afford loosing our hard earned footing. We have to pretend. Lying is so much better. Everybody lies - why should I be any different? And so we keep walking through life, and we wonder why we don't feel much anymore. We want to, but we don't seem capable anymore. We look at little kids, running around, being happy for no particular reason, and we envy them, we want the same, we try to remember what it felt like, just to feel. But we can't. We want to shed our defenses, but we're too weak to acknowledge they exist. We're stuck. We decide - everyone lives like that - why should I try to be someone else? They all suffer, life is hard - I will suffer too. But it't not true. We haven't lost our senses, we just need to shed our layers, one after another, to dig down to our core selves. To be open. To show everyone our imperfections. To be viewed and publicly discussed like an exotic animal - and to be ok with it. To be called a name, a label - and to be ok with it. To nod in agreement and say - yeah, that's me. Yeah, you got it right. Yeah, you can see - I hide nothing - what you touch is real, what you see is real. This is as real as it gets. Want to see more? Want to know what happens to the ones who dare walking around naked?

Watch me. When I fall - I bleed and scream, and I scab, and everyone points their fingers at me, and laughs. And what do I do? I laugh with them - at me being so clumsy. Yeah, I am clumsy. See? Watch me. When I talk - I spew out whatever comes to my mind, I forget that some of it might be too much, or too intimidating, or too inappropriate. And everyone shakes their head, and whispers to their neighbors, and forms an opinion. And I apologize - I admit I did something wrong - and they all point fingers again - and I let them. Because I did it, not them. What to see more? Here, watch. When I love - I throw everything I got, and I attach, and give, and feel everything from pain to ecstasy to quiet gazing to heated arguments - all to the fullest of possible feelings - and I get suggested that I shouldn't do it, that I should measure myself neatly, that I should ration, that I should be careful and thoughtful and rational. But I want to share - I want to say - hey, all of it feels awesome, including the pain - it makes me feel alive! And they shake their heads again, they hide behind their own layers and suggest I put mine back on, quickly, before I catch some virus, something that might destroy my evenness. I try not to, but I do get scared, I grab my "cool", and my "I can be on my own, thank you very much", and my "i'm smart so I don't need you", and I keep piling them all on, one after another, until I can't breathe and realize what I have done. I have something to compare it to - I felt what it's like without them, and I want more. I curse them and shed them, only to be scared again and trying to hide some more. Taking them off. Putting them on. I notice a pile in the corner of my room - more and more layers are being shed. Less and less are in use. I'm thinking of disposing of them all - of tossing them into garbage and letting them rot. I don't need them anymore - I'm not afraid to be afraid. I am afraid and I'm ok with it, standing naked in the blowing wind of life. Feeling it. Without a single layer on. 

Photo by Casey Muir-Taylor.