I slice it open and the colour fills me, soulful cerise, like little bubbles begging to be burst. Pomegranates makes me happy. The fact that I could be so simple simultaneously delights and disappoints me.
Because I cannot decide if I am simple or not, or maybe I am both. But by being both, am I not complicated by default? Why do I even care to define such a thing?
I am complicated because I think too much. I am obsessive-compulsive with my thoughts, wearing them down the same way one does with soap when they wash their hands too often; the seesawing between hypotheses the way one cannot stop flicking the light switch on and off. Sometimes the labyrinth of my mind takes me down wonderful paths of observation and enlightenment. Sometimes it sabotages me. I am too intense, too expressive I need too much. I expose myself constantly, sans regard for consequence, and then I make myself flimsily evasive to retain some sort of perceived control.
He called me out on it immediately. He said, Don’t be difficult. I am simple.– and it rattled me. That he illuminated the issue so fast. That he sliced me in half like pomegranate. Don’t be difficult. I said I would try. Because I like the way he sees me and I like the way he looks at me and I like that he is honest and kind and sensitive. I like that I can still smell him in my hair.
But still, I can only try. Which terrifies me. Because trying comes with the possibility of failure. I could fail.
And maybe this is why I write. Words do not fail me. Their shapes make sense to me in the way thoughts do not. I can take the trees of my thoughts and make fruit with them. I can see the pomegranate bubbles before I even cut it open. And though I might be obsessive when it comes to syntax etc, I can always be grounded with paper and a pen. It’s my way of making the complicated, simple.