Saturday, November 10, 2012

The Peter Pan Contagion

She grew up in a world that was far from the fairytales she read in books.  But if she was honest she remembered those stories with far more clarity than she does her own life.  She remembered the worlds of fairies and witches and vampires and ghosts, even werewolves and three headed dogs.  I'm sure you were expecting princesses trapped in towers or forgotten slippers at the ball.  She wasn't your ordinary child.  And if you ask anyone that's what made her most entertaining.  Her favorite story though was one you might know, and the title of that one was Peter Pan.

She didn't envy Wendy, as most girls her age did.  She didn't pine for Peter or fear Captain Hook.  She didn't even revel at the fun that the lost boys had, or find meaning in the hidden life lessons.  She wanted Peter Pan's life.  She wanted to live in a world where she never had to grow up, no matter how unlikely or how unfulfilling that life would be.  She wanted to stay young forever, and more than anything she wanted to fly.

And so as the years have wore on, she retained her belief in the world, in the unlikely, in the fantasy, wishing that someday she could fly on the wings of understanding and unwavering hope.  She thought that once that day came she wouldn't have to worry anymore, that she could live forever with the innocence she refused to give up.  For twenty-five years she succeeded, and then at roughly 3:24 today she flew.

She was an amazing young woman, and in her short time on this earth she changed almost every person she came into contact with.  She opened their eyes in ways that most were not ready for, and also in ways some will not even notice until years will have wore on and they too learn to fly.  She was a touchstone, this little girl.  And in many ways that part of her still lives on within me, because I was that little girl.  I had those dreams; I just didn't quite realize that maybe I had gotten Peter Pan all wrong.

As much as she yearned for those fairytales we have already gone over the fact that her life did not resemble them, nor does anyone's really.  But if you remember the story correctly, Peter Pan can fly because a) he believes b) tinkerbell provides some fairy dust and c) he has a happy thought.  Unfortunatley, in this world, magic does not exist, nor do any of those fairytale creatures.  So if fairies don't exist, their dust does not exist either, so Peter would not have gotten far with only happy thoughts and belief.  What then, did he have?  What did she have today, that she did not before?  What happened at 3:24?

It took all of her twenty five years, but today she discovered the key to this existence.  She saw something within herself that many others had already seen.  It was the part of her that touched them all; the part that stays with them and changes them minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years... decades down the line.  She had hope.  And at 3:24 today, twenty-five years after her father had read it to her for the first time, she understood the story of Peter Pan.

Peter Pan could fly because he had hope for a better world, a different world.  And today so did she.

It did not quite work the way she had thought it would, although if it were up to me I would prefer just this.  Changing the world in small ways each day.  Saving it in a sense, from itself.  She left for a school conference yesterday, traveled halfway across the country never imagining that she would not return, or that I would instead.  Her teacher asked her a question many others had in the past, and looking back it was quite simple.  What do you hope to do with your life?  Hope.  And she answered it, truthfully, for the first time.  She didn't just wish she could save this world, she hoped to change it, one troubled client at a time.  Hoped.  And before the words tumbled off of her tongue she was flying, and in doing so grew into me.

It is only now that I realize my place in this world, the importance that I may have.  She said she hoped to change the world, but I know that she already has.  Changing the world happens one person at a time, and even if I only change one, only save one, that's enough.  That's enough to change the entire world.  Peter Pan knew, and I guess maybe so did my father, even as he read the story to a tiny little girl rocking in her cradle, and again and again to that same child as she was growing up. 

Hope can be a powerful thing.  Some might even call it a contagion, but she just called it flying.

Friday, November 2, 2012

The taste of his intentions

Do you ever see a melody, or hear a feeling? Knowing full well that you're not supposed to be able to experience the world this...fully? I'm not supposed to be able taste his intentions, but my lips, they're bittersweet with his regret, and the taste won't go away.  And the flowers he left on my doorstep are already starting to reek of my desperation.  Oh how contradicting this life can be.  His effect on me is addictive, and before i know it I'm running into his arms, overwhelmed by my suddenly twisted senses.  My eyes blinded to the light of warning, my ears muffled to the sounds of danger, my body numb to the feeling of my already breaking heart.  The event, it's so catastrophic that it can bend reality until the blood that keeps this heart beating begins to scream.

And eventually that scream becomes a whisper, trapping his image on her last breath. Uniting two lost souls, forever and always, but only in death.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Yearning to redefine what home can mean

Some days I wonder if life will ever be as easy as it felt when first love still thrived and I was naive to much of the world, but mostly just to his so called charms.  Life was easy back then.  A one bedroom apartment on the third floor of a less than charming apartment complex in a not so perfect part of town seemed somehow more than it was. We made it our own.  We blocked out the noises of the city and the danger on the streets without even trying. Together we built a home, and sadly that is the last time I felt that.  Years later I recognize that he changed while we settled there.  He grew to need more, and I just grew to need him, latching on to the hopes that the feeling of home would travel with us.  Its taken this long but I now see the truth.  My first love started to unravel long before we left that apartment behind. 
I've since lived in many places, even with other boys, but I have not found home again.  Not as clearly as I did there.  I'm left wondering if that feeling is still tangible, if I well ever find that peaceful coexistence again.  Or if I do find it if I will know, or simply run away before it can be built.
He is lying beside me now, oblivious to my struggle and I wonder why.  Not why he does not know, but why i'm so scared to tell him.  That I want all if this.  I want a love with foundations, strings, connections.  I want my to become our.  I want to argue over the remote n play video games in our underwear until 3am.  I want to cook dinners side by side n do all the grocery shopping together.  I want what I left behind in that apartment, but for real this time.  I want to build a life with him, or maybe just discover if we want one together at all.
I want what I promised myself I'd never do again.  I want to jump in head first and drown in the attempt if it does not work again.  Because if we aren't going to do that, really what are we doing?

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

eleven day savior, or ten second disappointment

This life is nothing if not predicable.  The days they pass faster, as if gaining speed to ensure a deadly collision with a day I have conditioned myself to endure with more grace, but also wounds, as the years have progressed.  Twelve years, in eleven days.  One year less of half my lifetime.  The emotional turmoil connected to this event is often catastrophic, life-changing, and irreversible.  It also fosters relationships with those I trust, although this has dwindled far smaller than I ever dreamed as of late.  I find that a mere twelve cycles around the sun has caused my life to so adequately, stunningly, but yet not alarmingly repeat.  In a sense I am on my own again. 

I cannot go to the boy that I have trusted this with for nearly three years now.  Boundaries have been constructed, with good cause, and if I'm honest good affect.  We are better apart.  We are better without our secrets and our lies and our dishonest ways of ensuring that even though we were alone, we never had to be physically.  His are still the arms that I yearn for, but somewhere deep down I know that those arms would never feel the same.  That the world that was created when we touched back then has faltered, and inevitably fallen as a result of our conscious, and ever painful desire to kill whoever we used to be, together.  We destroyed what we used to be in order to move on to build stronger, more meaningful and indestructible bonds with those that chose us, over all else.  Because when it came down to it, we also chose them.  We choose them still. 

Tonight is harder, as I battle demons previously slayed by this savior I have given up.  The impulse to run to him is nearly overwhelming.  To walk through his door, and silently up his steps, and into his warm and ever inviting bed, as I have done dozens, maybe even a hundred times, before.  He would open his arms and he would accept me for my pain, he would match me breath for breath until I calmed, he would kiss my forehead in the most gentle and caring way, and he wouldn't ask what was wrong because he knew that it was too much for me to explain, right here, right now.  As the morning rays woke us he would ask, try to fix me before we needed to battle another day pretending that these midnight rendezvous' did not happen, that we didn't care, that maybe we never had.  And everything would be safe, and familiar.  But wrong.

Because even as I picture this scenerio in my head, I realize that the setting has changed.  The characters have morphed to others, in different beds, holding each other just the same.  But the girl lying there is terrified.  Terrified that she is too much for the boy that encases her in protection because he knows, almost intuitively, that at night, when the dreams come, she will need it.  He has known always, sacrificed many nights of sound sleep in order to ensure that he was there to silence her cries, to steady her racing heart, and hold her as she uncontrollably shook.  She fears that she is too broken for him, and that in these moments, with this type of pain, he will see her for who she is.  She is not the strong, methodical, challenging individual she perceives herself to be.  She is as fragile as crystal, teetering on the edge of a table already bound for collapse.

But what she does not know is that she underestimates this man, his capabilities of fulfilling his rightful position as her savior.  Clandestine from the day each of them was born, but thwarted by so many unknown forces. 

The amount of times that they could have, should have, may even have unknowingly, met are infinite.  He spent most of his childhood in the same backwoods small town that she eventually spent most of her adolescence.  He vacationed at a lake that she was invited to every fourth of july for at least four years, only one of which she chose to attend.  During that fated vacation her paddle boat was rescued by the boys next door, a group he no doubt belonged with, if he did not belong to.  He went to highschool with two of her three ex-boyfriends.  He was friends of friends of friends that rarely hung out.  It's even probable that on a night she was escaping the hell her first boyfriend was slowly structuring her within, that she may have met this boy at a party and that they talked, may even have hit it off, exchanged numbers, been able to fall in love before either of them had ever been hurt, had she been single, had he been looking.  But somehow they did not, or if they did circumstance kept them apart.  And completely unaware of the other's cosmic struggles to break the curse.

This realization creates many emotions at once, all so overwhelming and all-consuming that you cannot pick one out within her crowded heart.  She misses what she once had with a boy she knew she could never end up with to begin with.  She yearns for a world where she did not have to make that choice.  She rejoices in the fact that she realizes all of this, that he is unattainable, finally.  She is stunned by the fact that she has fallen as completely as she has for this other boy, this boy that it is becoming more and more obvious was destined to meet her someday.  Curiosity over why it has taken so long, why it is happening now, and if it will simply lead to new forms of pain.  Doubt that she is enough for a man like this, even if he does not realize his potential quite yet.  Worry that he will be like all the others, and either leave or be the object of my immediate disinterest someday. But under all of that is wonder.  Wonder at the fact that she is capable of loving again, that she really does not have a choice.

And as if to silence the cacophony of emotion, the pain reverberates ever more intensely as she lies here alone.  As I lie here alone, telling a story of a girl that I've somehow removed myself from.  Forced to separate with in order to overcome the overwhelming and heart-breaking loss that is associated with this day, only eleven days away.  And suddenly I am forced to realize the unimportance that each previous emotion has in reference to this. 

And I find myself silently praying to my father I lost almost twelve years ago, that this boy will not only save me, but repair this empty space within my heart, within my mind, within my soul.  Because maybe it had to happen this way, maybe we both needed to be broken in order to see that quality within each other.  Maybe in the end, it is our brokenness that will allow us to fit together.

Falling in love with the idea of a knight in shining armor, but willing to settle for an utterly human and surely not faultless or untouchable, unshakeable boy,

Friday, August 31, 2012

And with my heart as my compass, I pray to get lost in you

It's funny how life works out sometimes.  How you don't really realize what you want in life until you have it, or until you reach a point when you don't have it. 

Four years ago I was head over heels in love with the man that I thought I was going to marry.  The man that I would one day have a child with, a family with.  And then life got turned upside down and I realized that he was not the man I had always envisioned him to be.  That the man in my dreams every night that was holding my hand while I twirled in a wedding dress, told fantastic tales to my belly each night in preparation for our first child, and cuddled with our son and daughter in an oversized arm chair... just wasn't him anymore.  That man was still in my dreams, or some shadow of a man that was never defined enough for me to recognize, but for whom my love for was not only unparalelled but also overwhelming.

It was after this that I began to live life, fully and also on my own terms.  I wanted to experience the world, truly experience it.  And in doing so I met many other men, many men that entertained me for some specific segment of my journey, for a very specific amount of time.  They were there for a specific reason to allow me to continue on this journey.  Some of them knew that, others were saddened to realize that this was not something that would be enough for either of us, not then anyway.  I was saddened too, each time I realized it was time to move on.  I was saddened that none of these men were the man in my dreams either.  Not that they were not good enough, or that they lacked something to prove their inherent self worth.  It just wasn't right.  Well it was right in the cosmic we needed each other for those specific moments in time sense, but not in the sense of destiny.  We were not destined for each other, not at that specific point in time.  I emphasize this because I would not hesitate to give any of these amazing men a second chance, I just wonder if this is wise considering the damage that showing my interest in them again could inflict.  I am not proud of the fact that I broke so many hearts, and I do not intend to rebreak those that have overcome the initial wounds.

What is heartbreaking to me, literally gut-wrenching, is that the man that did not deserve me, that did not end up deserving the family that I dreamt of each night, now has exactly that, without me, and in spite of the fact that it was literally the only reason he ran away from me to begin with.  As I type this I realize that it sounds as if I am the jealous exgirlfriend, which maybe on some innate level I am.  "He was mine, she can't have him" is the immediate jealous response.  This is because he was mine for so long, and still twice as long as her, but also because he was my first love.  Maybe I loved a man that never really existed, but some part of him is still hers, and it hurts more than anything that it is something I will never get back.  In some small way as much as I want to deny it, attack him for being a black mark on my past, I cannot.  Some part of me will always love him.  What is stronger than all of this is my jealousy, not of the woman that now has him, but of what he now has.  There is an almost feral jealousy of the fact that he has what I want most in my life, and he does not deserve it, nor did he want it.  I am jealous of the family that he gets to have even though the man that left me four years ago did not deserve to ever have it.

As scary as it sounds, and as hard as it is for an independent and level-headed master's level counseling student to admit, I want a family more than anything.  I want a husband that surprises me with flowers and sleeps safe and sound next to me each night.  I want his and hers toiletries again.  I want to take turns making dinner, and choosing what to watch on TV.  I want to feel life inside of me.  I want to bring a life into this world, and know without a doubt that he or she is safe, that our family is whole and happy.  I want what I had as a child for far shorter than I would have wished.  I don't even remember what family like that felt like.

And as I say all of this, I'm looking to the man that is in my life right now.  He makes me laugh.  He makes me feel safe.  He respects me.  He makes me happy in ways that I have not been happy in a long time.  The problem is that I am absolutely terrified to trust that he can be the man that I so desperately want in my life, and I know that he is not ready for what I need so badly.  Not to say that he couldn't be that man, but that it's just not in the cards yet.  Babies scare him, marriage is a joke. 

And for me it's the same, on the surfact, with my friends.  I couldn't even count on two hands the amount of times I've vowed to never reproduce, but somewhere deep down everytime I take that vow I smile knowing that I'm deceiving my audience. 

Unfortunately, my world is standing still, and my feet are anchored fastly to the hull of this ship that is not travelling anywhere near those waters.  I have to wonder if I'll ever deserve what I so hope for, what I so dream of.  And what I could have done that I did not deserve it before,and still do not deserve it now.

But until the fates do believe I deserve the life I so hope to someday live, I will sail on in uncharted waters with the one that I choose to lay my head next to most nights.  I will navigate with only my heart as my compass, and hope to God and also to my lost father, that it only guides me right.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Claustrophobia of the Soul

As I sit here my hands are trembling for reasons that I cannot explain.  My breath is catching in my throat and tears are brimming within my eyes.  My emotions are clawing for my attention, for my help, but I am at a loss, for words and also for what to do.  And so after many recent days of this uncontrollable emotional breakdown of sorts I have crawled back to the only place that has ever made sense to me, even if the words rarely make sense themselves.  I'm unsure what I believe I can find here, on this empty page only consisting of a blinking cursor that only seems to mock me after so many futile attempts to explain how it is that I am feeling.  I'm unsure that there are even words for this type of feeling.  It's almost as if I'm experiencing claustrophobia of the soul... I just feel so trapped within myself, and I cannot get away.  I can't get out of this box that I have drawn myself into.  There is no getting away from who I have allowed myself to become.  That sounds like a bad thing, like I've let my life, and myself, go to hell, but that's the most confusing part of this saga.  I like who I am.  I like who I have become.  I've finally found a place where I am happy with the decisions I make, the people that I choose to surround myself with, and the things that I am doing.  Life is not perfect, and a lot has changed lately, but somehow I'm still me.  I'm still independent and hard-working and loving.  I am still dependable and honest.  I've reached a place where where I am and what I'm doing somehow have nothing to do with who I am.  I am me regardless of where I am, who I'm with or what I'm doing.  But I still feel like I want to run away from me.  And unfortunately, I am the only person I cannot get away from.  Because every time I run, I'm there.  And my soul is beginning to shatter, ever so slowly because I still want to get away.  I just need to figure out what it is that I need to get away from.

Monday, May 14, 2012

The Grey Compulsion

The intent of this post is rather embarassing.  A few days ago I was at work and picked up a book off of the shelf and started reading it on a whim.  The cover was intriguing, and yes I must admit the worst part of this story may very well be the fact that I have fallen victim to one of life's greatest sins.  I not only judged a book by it's cover, I grossly misjudged it.  Days later I would find that this book, which I had compulsively  read the first page, a middle page, and the last of (as I do with every book I judge) and set it back on the shelf for later review, was the new craze.  It plasters newspaper reviews, television shows, facebook posts and posters in front of bookstores.  Fifty Shades of Grey, the tale of an inexperienced and passionate young woman and the youngest business tycoon/ closet BDSM master to conquer the world.  I have to admit, after judging it as a good book by it's less than fascinating cover (after further reading and understanding), I was wrong, this book is not good; it is amazing, maybe even life changing in a sense that is unexpected, uncanny, inexplicable.

Many are drawn to the utterly erotic context.  Some to the sad love story.  Even others to the tortorous exchange of pain and pleasure.  Not I.  I am drawn to this book because of its ability to push boundaries, to test limitations.  This is not a book about sex, this is a book about love, and the bounds that people will break, both consciously and unconsciously, to satiate the innate need for it.  This book shows love for what it truly is:  a compulsion.

And the more I read, the farther I am enthralled by these two people.  And it is strange because usually when this happens it is because I want to live that life, to feel those feelings, to experience life in ways that I have yet to.  This is not the case here.  I am obsessed with their compulsion because I need to understand it, to understand this need that has somehow overtaken me already.  This sounds strange in the context of this book if you know anything about it.  But I'm talking about the bare bones of the story.  Obviously it is an extreme example, but it is also the epitome of what it desperately tries to describe.  The compulsion to love the one person that is not necessarily easy to love... practically, emotionally, physically, or otherwise.  Because that is what I do, what I have always done, what I am doing once again.

But I ask you this, is it wrong to want to be compulsed by him?


Saturday, March 24, 2012

Time, and tests, will tell

"One thing Winny had learned from books was that you had to be tested in life to discover who you were and what you were capable of doing.  Hopeless sissy, noble warrior, maniac-- he could be anything, and he wouldn't know until he was tested."- Dean Koontz (77 Shadow Street)

"As you have observed, it is the nature of human beings to exploit one another ruthlessly and to ravage nature as well, again and again and again over the centuries.  No class or race or faction is innocent of that crime."- Dean Koontz (77 Shadow Street)

"By their nature, heroes leave outsize footprints, overblown and dangerous legends, therefore, in a well-ordered and efficient world, there would be no place for them."- Dean Koontz (77 Shadow Street)

"Fear is the engine that drives the human animal.  Humanity sees the world as a place of uncountable threats, and so the world becomes what humanity imagines it to be."- Dean Koontz (77 Shadow Street)

The clean paper is almost menacing, waiting for me to ruin it with these misspelled words and misrepresented emotions.  I remember days where fear was not present or if it was it was only that the words would never stop, or that the pen may run out of ink or my hand would cramp before the words refused to flow.  Life is much different now.  Words are few and far between, as is inspiration.  Life is fleeting, and yet I have no words for it.  I cannot explain how it feels to question whether I want to know if my life is about to drastically be in jeopardy.  It is frustrating to try to pick out the emotions when so many are zooming around inside of my crowded head.  They are attacking me in phases, breaking me down with each onslaught of doubt, pain, worry, regret, loss, sadness, and longing.  And we are back to the age old question:  if you could know if you were going to die, would you want to know?  Would it change your life, the way you live it?  Would knowing that soon all of this will be gone, and that you might get to fall in love, and you might even have time to have children, and to find happiness and purpose in life, but that you would have to inevitably leave it all behind change if you choose to do those things?  It's hard to fathom, and the words fail me, fail to save me.

But the answer is obvious, the answer to the question at least.  I have to know, because it will change things... it might even change everything.  Can I truly have children knowing that they will grow up most of their lives without a mother?  Can I have children knowing that there is a large likelihood that I will pass on this "bad gene" and they too will suffer as I might, as my father did.  Is it fair to affect my world as my father inevitably affected ours?  This pain, I wouldn't wish it upon anyone.

Time, and tests will tell.  Until then, the ticking clock is nearly unbearable.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

The hero(ine)

Some days the trail of carnage that marks my path is overwhelming, surprising.  It's almost as if I am not the girl that left them there.  It takes on a cartoonish representation in this unlikely satire.  If I could describe it in words it may be rather dark, depressing, and a little too enlightening for the feint of heart.  You might know everything about me, but I'm almost determined to never ever show you this.

Memory is a funny thing.  The more you want to change something, the easier that memory is to change.  It warps faster than normal memory when you wish more than anything that it would have been different, that you would have made another choice.  So maybe you wake up two weeks, two years, two decades later, and you remember it exactly as it should have gone.  You were the hero (the heroine) of the world.  You didn't break his heart, you saved it from shattering.  You didn't lie to him, you saved him from a much deadlier truth.  And you bury those real memories under bullshit until they do not even seem to exist anymore.  Seem. To. Exist. Key words.

The bodies are piling up faster than you ever imagined was possible.  You walk into a room and all hearts are on you suddenly.  They are all begging for your attention, for your expertise.  It's almost amazing how quickly they have begun to fall. for her. for you. but mostly for me.  This is the girl that they fall in love with.  The girl that puts all of her shit out into the world and just is.  The girl that isn't afraid to be broken, or confused, or undecided.  They fall for the version of me that needs fixing, but doesn't ever expect to be fixed.  Because like all men, they love to fix broken things, to put things back together, to reassemble without instructions.  The problem is that as much as they are addicted to fixing me, i'm addicted to shattering.  I have perfected the art of shattering into a thousand misguided and ill-intended pieces.

I say that I believe life is about the pursuit of love, and most days I mean that.  I believe that we are put on this earth to find that one other soul that will make us whole again, that there is a perfect match in this world for each and every one of us.  I am the most disgusting romantic that you will ever meet, but I am also deep down in my core a realist.  I got my love.  And it is because of this love that I learned the ultimate thrill.

Some people bungee jump, others skydive, but not this girl.  This girl slays her victims of love with the double bladed sword of vengeance.  Taking back a piece of herself that she never intended to give away before it's too late.  Because it was too late once... maybe even twice... and she never ever wants to feel that pain again.  She is fine with shattering, she knows the pain is only temporary because she causes it now, but back then it was him that broke her.  He threw her against that wall and like a sheet of glass she scattered across the floor of that apartment. She left something there that she may never find again.  And as she looks back at the wreckage, at the toll of hearts on her conscience, she wonders if maybe she did not create the same kind of monsters along the way.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Twisting myself back up in love/life

"life doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be lived"-Dexter

And as the fear creeps in deeper, running already sounds enticing. This soul was born to run, impulsive to the core, but the biggest fear is what happens when I can't run anymore. And if I'll ever find what I run for.

Am I scared to get hurt, or that I've found a place worth being still for?  My heart continues beating, my mind is racing at a frenzied pace, but amazingly my hands are steady. Only here. And as I say this I can hear what its like when he smiles.

This world is a mess of contradictions and nonsensical bullshit, but I love every twisted note. I love that I hear his smiles, taste his apprehension, smell his doubt, feel his absence, and imagine a place where this is routine, mutual, a place where finally there is no reason nor temptation to run. ever again. Or at least for one more night.

Monday, January 16, 2012

untangling the web

The concept of time is something that I can no more put out of my mind than I can erase, or escape it.  Memories are remnants of this time, and as those memories fade, I am left to wonder if time itself does not fade, and eventually cease to exist.  We wake up and we live each day and we go through the seconds and minutes and hours as if they are nothing, but once we live them, and cease to remember them, do they themselves fade away?

And as I stood there today, realizing that everything that we ever had was gone, I smiled.  I reveled in the fact that he no longer existed there, that maybe we no longer had to exist either.  All that remains of us is the fact that we have both found our way here.  I understand what here means to me, although I'm not really sure where or what here actually is.  What it is for him, I don't really care.  Because even though it is here for him, it doesn't have to be here for me anymore.  I have finally escaped the tangled web we chose to weave all of those years ago, and I feel confident in the fact that I am better for it.

Fate is for the believers, destiny is for the lovers... somehow I find myself somewhere in between these.  Locked between fate and destiny and believing and loving.  You would be amazed by the amount of lies that exist in this space.  So, I wonder if I can believe in that happy ending, or simply bask in the utter lunacy of it.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

love and contradictions

Today the world melted away again.  I woke up and it was different, but somehow still the same.  And it is only now that I am realizing that the world didn't change this time.  I did.  I think I finally realized that it might be time to grow up.  Life isn't all about having fun, or going crazy.  It isn't about making stupid decisions, and laughing about them later.  Life is definitely not about sharing a bed with someone different every couple days.  It's about all of those things too... all of those things make up my life.  Every bad decision, and every stupid choice, and every good one too.  That is my life.  But now I want it to be more, I need it to be more.  Life is about finding that one person that you want to spend your life with and sharing everything with them.  Life someday does not need to be this lonely.  Because right now that's what it is.  Lonely.  The kind of lonely that permeates to the very center of my chest and just sits there night after night.  Its like a hole, with a weight inside.  I know what I'm missing.  The problem is that I'm not sure who it is that will ever fill it.  I've been in love before, this I am sure of, but I have never ever found a love that filled that space inside.  Everyone tells me to wait, to be patient, that love will find me one day, and I'll just know, but what if I didn't know and I already walked away from it?  What if I didn't get the right (possibly wrong) guy a chance?  These what ifs are overpowering sometimes.  They take my breath away, and they make the loneliness creep in a little farther.

And I am left sitting at the bar, next to a boy that I have known for a long time and he looks different.  And the way he looks at me is different than he used to, and I guess I've seen this for a while.  I've seen that something changed along the way, something in the way he catches my eye across the room and smiles at me.  Something in the way he hugs me goodbye, like he holds on a little longer than before, and is a little more tender than he used to be.  And this makes me want to change how I look at him, but then those what ifs rear their heads again and I wonder if it's only because I'm lonely.  He's a great guy, and to be quite honest I would trust any of my best friends hearts in his hand.  I'm not sure who said it, or where I heard it, or if the information is even plausible or believable, but there was a day in the not too distant past when someone somewhere said that every lonely single girl worries and cries about the fact that she is alone, when if she just took the time to look around her she has at least one guy friend that would die to spend their life and conquer the world with her.  I can do that.  I can look at my life and I can see at least four guys that would drop everything they have to be with me.  But I still have one little problem.  I'm not willing to drop my life for any of them.  If we were supposed to love each other, wouldn't we already be together?  But then there's the fact that if I never make any steps to change those relationships that they will never change, they will never evolve.

So here's the problem.  Everything that anyone ever tells you about love is contradicting.  "wait for love to come to you". "best friends usually end up falling in love". "nothing will happen if you don't get out there and do something about it". "change is necessary".  "love never changes".  It's all crap.  I could easily love someone that already loves me, but for some reason that's just not enough for me, it never has been.  I need that epic earth shattering love.  The kind that fate brings, and battling keeps.  I want someone to fight to get me and fight to keep me, and never fight with me.  I want love that is enough for my entire life.

Because this hole inside of me is growing as each day passes.  The sun rises, and with it comes a carving knife.  I fear that if love does not find me, and soon that I will eventually not want to wake up anymore to witness the destruction.  Love is the only cure to this kind of loneliness.  But I can't find it, and am starting to wonder if I ever will.


Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Footprints in the snow

The world looks so innocent encased in white. As if nothing can touch it, and it has never been touched before. A virgin to the horrors of the world. And then someone touches it. Leaves their mark in a permanently impermanent way.

Even as she writes it she knows that he will not see it. The snow continues to fall covering the letters ever so slowly, and she watches them fade away. She knows she ruined the pristine illusion, but also revels in the fact that snow is self protecting.  It regenerates much like a starfish... And soon it will be as if she had never been here to even witness the storm.

She is jealous if the fact that she cannot fade away as easily as her footprints in the snow.