Let's be serious.
You speak to me. You confide in me. You tell me your secrets and you bellow your heartaches to me, and I take these things seriously. I look deeply inside my self for the answers so that I can alleviate your pain. I ponder and wonder through the core of my mind to find the key that will unlock the mysteries that pervade your soul and break your momentum. I take it all so seriously. I write down my thoughts with regard to the things you have said. I try feel your aches to know your pains.
But then my intentions transmute themselves into other areas of my life. They supersede into areas that they should not. They crawl mischievously into my everyday happenings. Conversations shared between strangers. Jokes passed between friends. I am all too serious. I lose my capacity to laugh and enjoy. My ability to think freely and love carelessly all because I cannot let go of this habitual and innate desire that I built in myself that was borne through the want to help others. But because I hold the history of helping others I now bare the cross of hurting myself.
I must peel away this layer that stares me down into a perceptive dysmorphia. I must take this debilitating disease and disown it from my circuitry. Dissolve it from my essence and rewire my being. I must do this so that I can then readily laugh, actively play, and openly share without questioning every aspect and analyzing every moment.
Choosing my moments. Choosing when to be, and when not to be. That is the answer.
I pray for intermittent artillery and for the flexibility of a cat. I want the adaptive and responsive astuteness that only a charismatic god amongst men would have. So that I can use my faces in the places they sit best. So that I know when to draw the knife or rather raise the gun.