"And there it stood, a flower on a rock, where nothing else lived for a hundred miles in every direction. This flower was life, standing proud to the sky, lapping up sunlight, digging her roots into the ground, she was living, no matter what the world told her she couldn't do, she just went on, chin up into the sun -- and I realized that life, by its very nature is brave." ~ Atticus
silence, does not reply; although, it is full of answers. ~ Madalina Coman
Manipulation. He slithers like a snake through the tall grass. Concealed. Biting the ankles of those least suspecting. Insidious. Vile. Self-serving. He isn’t self serving in a way that propagates life. He’s self serving in a way that diminishes life and the truth she stands for. Scared. Cowardly. Conniving. He attempts to convince others while convincing himself. and. I wonder, does he believe his own lies? Insidious.
Manipulation is destructive. A lowly vibrating thing. fragile. hiding behind the proliferous dance of the ego. Weak. Conniving. Cowardly. Praying upon those who are too trusting. Hiding from the world and himself. Isolated. Alone. Shrinking. Broken and feeble behind the mask of self righteousness.
Venomous and infecting. Ripping away freedoms. Disrespecting. “Believe this about me, here it is, this. What I want you to see.” He asks us to believe the storyline he’s running. Buy this. Accept me. The version I’m selling. I wonder if he believes the lies he’s selling. I wonder if he thinks they’re passing as truths. Conniving.
"The art of pleasing is the art of deception." ~ Luc De Clapiers
I tell him. “You have no idea what you’re doing. The damage you’re causing. The switchblade is stabbing you in your heart and the world in the gut. Tell me. Do you enjoy this, bleeding?”
Manipulation. He disrespects your choice to choose what you believe. He hides the facts he’s not ready for you to see. Calculating. He lays before you the collage of well prepared half-truths. Irresponsibly. Engineered authenticity. Manufactured depth. Ill produced sudo spiritual jargon. I see you. I feel you. You do not fool me.
Remember. Life broke me long ago. I know manipulation, I have given him free room and board inside me. I have felt him. I have welcomed him, against my better judgment. I have been weak. I have been broken. I am not wise. And. I am not a fool. I smell your insecurity. You wreak of her.
"what about this theory. the fear of not being enough. and the fear of being 'too much.' are exactly the same fear. the fear of being you." ~ Nayyirah Waheed
Manipulation. He’s arrogant. A poor magician. There is no magic here. Duct tape. Smoke and mirrors. Inauthentic. Deception fills my lungs. I’m sick with it.
Can we blame him? The scared and lonely child, begging for acceptance. Craving to fit in. Trading the illusion of closeness at the cost of his soul. We see adults where there resides lost and broken children. Their bodies have aged and their hurts have hardened. Just under the surface they lie, desperate, trembling. Begging to be seen. Craving to be saved.
"A lie told often enough becomes the truth." ~ Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
Take my hand. Close your eyes. Count to three. I’ll walk you through your shadow. I’ll sit beside your ghosts. We’ll dance upon the carousel of your heartache. Tell me, where is the root of all this hurt? Who told you that your truth would never be good enough? Who nurtured you with manipulation and praised you with fear? Share your memories. Let me speak with them. I have a curiosity. An unending desire to understand the hearts of men and their dark and twisted tickings.
Take your time. I’ll wait.
Manipulation doesn’t surrender easily. Plagued with fear. Always on guard. He sits, like a snake in the depths of the tall grass. Coiled. Cold. Defensive.
Resistant to vulnerability. he is weak. Manipulation cowers in the grass. Constantly creating new identities. Masks. Appropriate for the hiding. Shedding the dry scaled skin of each false identity. Instantly manufacturing another. Scared.
"Men are used as they use others." ~ Bidpai
Tell me. Are you tired? It must be exhausting. The running. The hiding. The fear of being found out.
Come. Rest for a while. Shed your dry skins. Shed them all. Free yourself from the isolation of your artificially manufactured fortitude. You’re not fooling anyone. It’s okay. Rest here.
I know of a green meadow. A pond with electric blue waters. The gentle scent of crisp air and wildflowers. We can sit beneath the glowing shade of the old white oak tree. Here we can wait as your raw skin heals. Here you can rest until you have the courage to be vulnerable. Patience. I will know when you are ready. It is always clear when it is time to gather the lanterns in search of ourselves, beneath the quiet light of the pale indigo moon.