Capricious

18 - My Name is Maverick

"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present."
- Anaïs Nin

We are rebels. We are intellectuals. We are Mavericks.

Do I just want to be crazy? Or is there a deeper reason for these gorge propelling swings in mood?

The curious case of discovering signs of a life I could have lived. A different place, a different focus, a different series of acquaintances. If only I'd known. Why do I feel like I grew up entirely in the wrong place? Circumstance does not make up for instinctual belonging, not in me. Can I somehow make up for it? Or are these lives that are not in any way my own? Am I just enveloped in envy? Or is it all part of this déjà vu?

The jubilating allure in not having a single clue where I'm going. Following the way that most intrigues me. The gothic stone and sharp, twisting spires. Burnt buttresses and audacious galleries. Garden laid vaults with hidden knowledge. What elegant edifice to have at your back. Orifices to secret courtyards, spinning off via cobbled alleyways, aged arches and archaic gates. Romantic low bridges coalescing structures spread with sprouting vines swathing cold grey and mild sandstone. A contrast of paling pink fitting around like tetris blocks. Lounging on the terrace, monarchy of the presided view. From balcony and tower, crowning domes and ethereal windows, now all that divides me from these worlds. I'm drawn like gravity through columns and rows, meeting the pull head on. The talks overheard, that give the feel for it, to converse over everything with ease. The winter chill does not hide how much warmer it is. But to exist within it, I first I have to earn it.

There is a trouble in wanting to live everything, because things don't work like that. You spend so long testing lives, torn by indecisiveness, that you waste it all away.

Shadows dancing on the ceiling, born of light and obstruction. They prance and they whirl without any of our convoluted troubles. So pure and beautiful, simple and free, I'm beset with a fallacious bout of envy.

Steaming windows, sketching with black ink. At reflected art and the beauty at its side. Dark and light wood, round tables, metal bars. One eye staring at me. The pale skinned Oxford blonde, small featured, round face, curved cheeks. Petite mouth brandishing a mighty smile. And those eyes again, blue and black, miniature jewels licked with mascara. No wonder why I had the urge to keep that moment.

My mood seemingly depending a great deal on my dreams. And my dreams depending all the while on my mood.