Sharing.

You know, in many ways, I love to share. When I go out for a meal, I readily encourage everyone to take a cheeky bite out of each other. Their food I mean.. ahem. Some people like to be protective. Some people don't like others crossing their boundaries and stealing from their safety plate. (I find these are the types that usually read the menu five times over - only to order the steak again and again... )

I love to share passions - music, film, literature. I am not content until I have seeked out every opinion, every thought. I am not so much obsessed about definites. About being wrong, being right. Blacks and whites bore me. All those shades of grey inbetween are infinitely more fascinating. I am much more interested in why people destroy themselves. In what drives people to surpress culture, or dine on pretension. My intention is rarely to prove myself better, worthy.

I am a competitor - but not in the natural sense. I will fight, but I have only one thing to conquer. My mind. Something inside me burns to question, to probe, to acknowledge. To accept. If life itself is a competition, then I desire to understand it. Not to win it, or lose it. Satisfaction for me would not involve me being the last one standing. This is not to say that I don't crave the occasional moment of glory - but I long to die wise, rather than with a shallow tag around my neck.

Existence for me has never been about the winners and the losers. The remembered, the forgotten. The dead, the living. The living dead. Existence for me runs deeper than surface measurables. I've always desired to know what lies underneath the surface. Sometimes I think there is an extra dimension that we can't see, not with our eyes anyway. There lies a City of questions, a World of answers. A real reason for living. The real reason. Those few people that are insistent enough to get there, never need return home again. For they are home. Home is a mind completed, a body laid to rest at peace with itself.

Some people might say these variables are complicating the real justifications for living. Love. Happiness. So why can't some get over the death of love? When you get to the end of the line, people throw their arms wildly toward the sky. The sweetness of embrace, the joy of victory. But what was the meaning of that race? How long will it bring you happiness? What about the race that is run daily inside our heads? A short sprint can provide an adrenaline rush. But life is a marathon. Our bodies get tired, and start to break. Our minds get weary, and start to fear. When we reach the finishing line of life, people are not happy. They stay sad, and silent. And a part of everyone is afraid. Don't tell me they're not.

I think, perhaps, there is a moment between life and death when we see the extra dimension. Not all of us, perhaps. But those that want to. Perhaps that is why people who talk about the light, become wiser citizens. They have not seen the end, nor the beginning. They have seen the reasons for existing - or more importantly felt them. Then can grab the moment, because when their moment comes, they understand it. Maybe a part of us has to die so we can truly die again, not just disintegrate. Not just fade away. But die completed, ready for whatever comes next.

This was supposed to be about sharing. About how I can't share my thoughts or feeling anymore. How my only security comes from listening to others. Even my journal doesn't quite feel calm in my hands. But perhaps I can. Perhaps I just need to stop fighting this wicked fear that I'll never get to see the answers. Perhaps there are people out there, who can still understand.

Understand me, understand life. Understand what I've gone through, make sense of the madness that's been eating away at my brain for the last few years. Maybe someone can save me before there is nothing left but a skeleton.

The one thing that's kept me going the past few months is this knowledge. That there is more, that I haven't seen everything yet. There is more to existence than pain and dysfunction. That help is here. Help is just difficult to find when you're too fucked up to realise you need it.

Luckily, I'm not beyond repair. I want help. I need it. I crave it. I don't think the walls that I've built-up to stop people getting inside are important anymore. No longer do I consider these wallls of insecurity, but walls of experience. Walls of security, infact. If I didn't have them in place, I wouldn't still be here now. My mind would have driven me to jump from their heights. I think I am comfortable with them, and need others to be comfortable with them too.

Some people are persistent. Some don't give up easily. Challenges motivate people, and I am a challenge. There are people that still want to scale me though - that, I am sure.

The walls have never been higher than they are right now.

Yet never, and I mean never, have I so longed for help and company inside my twisted boundaries.