my tipe blou

I can't help but wonder about people carrying a trumpet and a clouk of a curtain believe, you know the type where their beliefs sit tight on them as if it's their skin.

They carry these values and makes sure you take note

When it suites them these values on desplay escapes them.

So it comes to the day where something sharp harted is said, not to harm or cut... Rather to remind them of this 'skin'

That's where you see the display crumble; the cloak they carry is deteriorating, something small is spread thin through circles of familiar strangers.

So the final line is drawn, things needed to be said for the cloak bearer to understand their actions, they will be judged by the cloak they wear.

But the chitter chatter of hatred and lies gets spread, and judgements cuts are made by familiar strangers, the effect is a ear piercing sound of trumpet. The hurt caused by a clouk bearer's delusion is lingering; it strikes at anyone with an ear.

Many years of silence from target layers lay the foundation of delusions the cloak bearer craves on, it strengthens the strike and thinks it carries the approval. You might not understand the silence from targets; the cloak bearer has a shield, a shield made up of kindness and natural goodness. Everyone wants part of the shields, so the price they pay is silence. Unfortunately, the values are blended into ego now; there is no way of backing down. The incident is escalating from a verbal altercation to an apparent attack. Mad at the familiar stanger calling her out, reminding her that even the cloak she's wearing speaks against her actions.

How is it that a cloak bearer wants to be known by the cloak they wear, but only when it suits them!

I can't help but wonder about the people who carry a trumpet in hand and a cloak of virtue.

Both are intoxicating.

The trumpet announces their values before they even enter the room. The cloak wraps them in righteousness. They wear both proudly and make sure everyone notices. Until it no longer suits them.

Then the values slip. The cloak tears at the seams. All it takes is something small. Something light-hearted. Not a weapon. Not a wound. Just a comment that wasn't meant to cut. And suddenly the performance begins to crumble.

Whispers travel through circles of familiar strangers. Stories grow legs. Tiny moments are stretched thin until they become something unrecognizable.

Then the line is finally drawn. Someone speaks. Someone dares to hold the cloak bearer accountable. Dares to remind them that if they wish to be known by the values they wear, they will also be judged by them.

But accountability sounds like persecution to those who have mistaken virtue for identity. The whispers become accusations. The accusations become judgments.

And the trumpet screams. Its sound is deafening.

The hurt caused by the cloak bearer lingers long after the noise fades. It strikes anyone close enough to hear it.

Years of silence from those caught in its path only strengthen the illusion. Every unchallenged action becomes another brick in the foundation of their delusion. Every bowed head feels like approval.

But silence is rarely agreement. Sometimes silence is the price people pay because the cloak bearer carries a shield. A shield built from genuine kindness. Real goodness. The parts of them that people love. Everyone wants access to that shield. So they swallow their words. They absorb the damage. They stay quiet. And the cloak bearer mistakes that silence for innocence.

Eventually, the values become tangled with ego. So tightly woven together that removing one would tear apart the other. Now there is no retreat. No reflection. No accountability. Only escalation.

What began as a conversation becomes an attack. Now released as an inner struggle. Not because they were harmed. But because someone reminded them that the cloak they wear doesn't match their actions.

I'm finally putting words to it...

You know how you wish for something? It feels like it's already yours. You embody it. You manifest it. You can almost taste it. It was you. Not my typical "type of blue," or so I thought....

Your blue is more green, like your eyes. They were blue enough.

You felt it too. Pieces of yourself were given to me through hugs and intentional, fleeting touches. They lasted longer than those shared between friends. The hugs couldn't become something more permanent because they were actually intended for her. The hugs you gave her were almost like candyfloss. Beautiful from a distance. Sweet in theory. But the moment they touched reality, they dissolved, leaving behind only a taste. Nothing sweet. It seems the space between the two of you created an empty void, enough for a stranger's hug to linger through a few Christmases.

We once exchanged our thoughts. "You're not interested." Yet you still hugged me longgggggg enough for me to wonder whether your words and feelings were speaking different languages.

I'm not innocent here. The truth is, I wasn't. I had my own candyfloss mess. My own unfinished stories. My own empty spaces.

Then life happened.

My break. It's a relief now, but someone reading this might think it had something to do with the hugs. If only. Changes. Changes. More changes. The kind that pile up quietly until one day they collapse under their own weight. But I collapsed.

Years of emotions got trapped and were released in a single night. You felt it.

I can feel the space between us now. The lingering was replaced by weird, cold side hugs—the kind even a homeless person might politely return. Slowly, though, I could feel it coming back. The lingering. This time with an extra tiptoe added to it. Relief, I thought.

Time and time again, I created a persona of being uninterested. I explained LOVE away as friendship. It was my shield. The only way I could still receive those candyfloss hugs. Even the weird ones. But you knew that.

Then something broke for you. In silence. I understood the reasons without you saying a single word. I remember actually being excited. "Get it together, Blue," I told myself. Say something. Do something. Be real for once. But before I could, you were gone. You left looking for greener pastures.

The sad part... I understood. If I had been standing where you stood, surrounded by familiar strangers whispering advice and carrying memories of my shortcomings, I might have left too. Some stains linger longer than hugs.

The thought of you finding what you deserved somewhere else felt unbearable. My heart broke. Not elegantly. Not poetically. Messily. Eyes puffy. Locking others out and locking myself in.

I thought 'I should hate you.' Yet I found nothing to arm myself against you. Instead, I found myself rethinking "my type of blue" into "my Sister Mary."... you know. Can't do anything wrong... Blah blah blah...

Sister Mary made me think... You see the hurricane I'm in. It sucks you in. I keep thinking I'm the villain. Somehow, putting it all on myself feels lighter. It's the rawest and most truthful moment I've had, as though this is the compound effect of a Jubilee in love with nothing. It feels like the emotional equivalent of low blood sugar. The kind that leaves you shaky and desperate for relief. Except instead of reaching for something sweet, I'd settle for a sip of brandy. Brandy does what it always does.

In my not-so-sober moment, I was thinking about heartbreak. I've been lucky enough never to have had my heart shattered before. It's new. It hurts. It's big. It takes up space. Even back when I had a ring on my finger—which, by the way, went south slowlllllyyyy—and even after losing loved ones, there wasn't anything I could compare this to.

But a broken heart put everything into perspective. I look at people differently now. Their courage. The risks they take when they love someone. The terror of imagining the person you've quietly chosen ending up with someone else. The fear of becoming a spectator in a story you desperately wanted to belong to.

Finally I opened my eyesl It's heavy... Rock hard... Thinking that 'your' self-proclaimed person might end up with someone else without ever batting an eye in your direction.

Sometimes it feels like I'm pulling ghosts out of hats like rabbits. Their presence remains, but this time it feels different, I feel haunted by newly spawned ghosts.

The most annoying ghost asking 'have the goals bullseye moved?` Or wondering has fitting in with familiar strangers made the bullseye blend in or maybe just become blurry?

Now I can't help but think that intoxication made us similar. 

The persecuting ghost returned. For once, it isn't chasing me; it's lingering among the fragments created to protect me. The prosecutions sit plastered on—layer upon layer of judgment and carefully rehearsed contentment.

But tonight, I realized it wasn't the bullseye that kept moving away. It was me. I moved away, backwards.

I tried to carry my thoughts well, even while ghosts tormented me constantly. Standing with my hands resting in my pockets, thinking about how to unmask the soft and raw glimmer side of me.

I felt something. Excited. Finally. Here it is. The diamond in the rough. Something worth wanting. Something worth working toward. Something worth aiming for. It turns out that the diamonds revealed dusty, hardened stones. Their weight felt like punishment, as though regret were a debt that could be paid in full if only I suffocated enough beneath it.

The burden feels familiar now—almost comforting—as if I deserved it, believing my suffocating thoughts could somehow repay what was lost.

Even so, through the burden of carrying these stones everywhere, beneath the scarred layers, there is still hope. Dreams of simple, meaningful things: A place to belong. A life filled with purpose. A person to share ordinary moments with. Not an obsession. Not possession. Just small, sweet nothings.

I don't want to carry longing forever.  Steady love that can endure rawness, silence, and time. I crave hitting the bullseye.

Finding the healed parts of myself that survived every careless judgment, and learning from the broken fragments that now form a perfectly imperfect mirror.

So today, I find peace in the stones.

Remembering my own miniature Stonehenge—secret victories won, my version of David and Goliath. We all have a version of David's story. Five stones waiting to be launched. But not at familiar strangers.   I'm choosing to launch it at the walls of excuses.  At the relentless ghosts hiding in the shadows. And then I have 3 left, all aimed at a single target.