You can call me Milo, a childhood nickname, full-blooded Lakota. This site is dead but I still come here to read. RIP Tranquil Musings. You don't have to pm me. I do not write for the pleasure of others. I'm just someone passing by and I'm cool with that. I'm 28 and no closer to my degree than a year ago haha.
Who am I if I am without love, or pain or happiness? Why am I dissecting the good and the bad memories of myself and others?
I've been reading poems and stories on this site for over a decade and I have come to the conclusion that like others on this site, I am afraid of being absent.
Absent of love, of happiness, pain and suffering. Afraid of being absent of inclusion and positive feedback and voting. We want to be alive during the moments when we feel dead inside. We want to be happy during the times that sadness prevails. Like other social platforms, we create exclusive groups amongst ourselves to cherish the validity of our words and experiences so that we may not be alone.
I've learned that the storyteller can only grow when he or she accepts the absence of everything that constitutes his or her identity.
Like cutting the tree down from it's forest, seeing the depth of emotional vulnerability in its raw form can only be rewritten when we come up to breathe for air as a tree carved to bare wood.
Without emotional vulnerability, we are just empty words inked along the pages of past times never fully realized.
I am indebted to the storyteller that relives the raw moment that makes us a bit more human.
So it is a pleasure to meet you, to whom it may concern, my name is Human.
If I forget to respond or don't comment back, please forgive me. I got carried away reading old and lost poems on this site.