Men refuse to show emotion, while women show it often and in excess. When one learns the power behind the ability to name a feeling, it is abused. Over time, it is easy to forget what it was originally meant for.
We are happy only to please others. We are sad only to manipulate. We are angry only to inspire fear.
It is fine. It can be lived through. What does not kill us, makes us cynical.
Once, I was new at love. I have taught myself to take authoritative steps. My eyes can see into the depths. Messages come to me through a direct line. I am as intrigued, as I am willing to be intriguing.
It is always that I can see things with accuracy, when they are not near. I see their contours, their colors, their proportions.
Like most of what I claim, this is only partially true. I have love, though not in its romantic form. I love my Angelina, as if she were an extension of me. A bouncing shape-shifter, projecting ideas I had long ago, and living them out. She is the ghost in the trees, the fairy guarding singing frogs, the esoteric knowledge hiding in silver clouds.
My niece, my true child.