(The forever unfinished draft of my goodbye letter to you... because I can't imagine loving anywhere else)

Sometimes it only takes a very small, even inconsequential event to shatter this fragile joke of an existence that I call my life.  The counselor in training that surprise surprise, needs a fucking counselor.  How I'm feeling is something that I'm not even sure I can explain, or that I want to, but the feelings that are beginning to boil up within me are quite dangerous, and unfortunately the path of the destruction is infinite, putting all those I cherish in the crosshairs of a rifle that they don't even know exists to begin with.  The more I type the less I make sense, the less I make sense the more I worry, and the more I worry the worse this is going to get. 

This is what I do.  No matter the circumstances, I end up exactly here.  Torn between the fact that I love (him), and the fact that it's just not enough.  For me?  For him?  For...ever?  I don't know.  The feeling is the same though, the same as it was in the past, and just as inconvenient.  Has he finally lost my attention, as I feared he would from day one, or am I just being dramatic?  Is there truly something wrong here or am I creating this... need for something more?

I love him.  I can't even sleep without him next to me.  I love the way that he caresses my arm while we're sleeping and drags me closer to him.  He nuzzles me.  I didn't even know what that word meant until he came into my life.  He laughs at my jokes and calls me on my bullshit.  He's perfect.  In a way that I never will be.  Because as much as I love this man, as much as I want to spend the rest of my life with something deep inside of me has already decided that he will not be that guy.  That he can't be.

So am I running because the psych(ot)ic in me knows that I'll eventually get hurt?  Am I running to save myself from whatever heartache I will meet in the future?  Or am I running to save him from... this?

I've never been more scared or felt more alone in my life.

To describe what is going on inside of me is not only frightening but ill advised.  It's like someone is choking me, pushing on my chest in such a threatening way that my immediate response is to push back... hard and quick so whoever is there will be caught off guard and unaware of my retaliation.  My mind wanders to find someone to listen, someone that will understand, but t(he)y doesn't care.  I'm not a cheater; I'm not a liar; I wouldn't dare.  And who am I trying to convince?  The pull to escape figuratively, turns physical, and the need just intensifies.  Where does a girl go when everyone has given up on her, and the only one that still cares doesn't have a clue who you are, what you're feeling, or how crazy this is about to get?

How can he love me if I haven't even let him get to know me?

And this is why I have yet to find real love, intense, ever-lasting no questions asked love.  I just want to be safe, and it's hard to admit but the only arms that I want around me right now are the ones that I know will not hurt me, because I don't have to care.  He can't hurt me if I don't care.

The utterly human response to truth

I guess there comes in a time in life when you need to just be honest with yourself for a minute, cut through all the lies and all the bullshit and just lay it all on the line.  Because if you don't, you're going to lose.  And you're going to lose more than just respect, and attention, you're going to lose him.  Maybe it's not even about him, maybe it's the part of you that you'll lose too that matters the most here.  The truth is that you won't even know what's at stake until it's already gone.  And the risk is overwhelming, breathtaking, heart-wrenching.  And the question is simple, but simple only in the structured sense because so much goes in to the answer.

What do you want?

It's simple.  In structure.  And you're still speechless as a result.  You want it all.  You want him and you want you both together and you want this life that you see lived everyday.  You want the house and the white picket fence and the pair of dogs playing behind it.  You want the little girl... and boy... and maybe even one more to be playing in the treehouse that he builds for them.  The treehouse that you built together.  And you want to climb in to bed each night next to him, holding him and listening to his heartbeat.  You want to tackle the world together with him, and you want to build this life that you have been conditioned to dream of.  And you wanna scream all of this at him as he stands there trying to convince you for some reason that he isn't enough, that you don't want him, that you deserve more.  And it dawns on you that you know the answer to his question, even if it isn't the question that he originally posed.

You want this to be enough.

He stops talking and looks confused, like you're telling him that you've had enough, that you really are done.  And his face falls in a way that you have not yet seen.  The look of disappointment is shattering, breaking the moment into a thousand pieces at your feet.  And for the first time you realize something.  Words are not enough.  This is hard for you.  Almost impossible to understand.  How can there not be words, how can the poet not even make sense of this world for him?  But you're not a poet anymore.  You're not a writer anymore.  You aren't me anymore.  We are separate.  I am dying.  Because I realize it too.  The words will never be enough.

"I want this.  I want you.  And I want it to be enough.  Forever.  And always." ... and then silently...again.

And these words frighten and terrify, not because you remember, but because you mean it.  You love him.  He is the man in your dreams, he's at the end of the aisle, he's holding your precious child, he's singing to you in the car, and asking you to dance.  He's... everything.  He is your world now. 

With this comes consequence.  The truth is never quite as easy as one would hope, because humans are not immune to fear.  Writers are, thank god, but not humans.  I can see it in your eyes, and reflected unknowingly in your heart.  You love him so much that it could kill you, and you know this.  The lightbulb just brightened and I could see it in your eyes.  You're calculating... the distance it will take, the amount of miles that will be sufficient to escape. 

How far will you have to run?

And will he have the courage to follow?

Do you ever catch yourself imagining a different life?  Maybe even one that was impossible, utterly fantastic...in the fictional sense, as well as the amazing sense i suppose.  I realize that i do this every time i travel in the Midwest, and it's generally much the same.

As the trees speed by outside my window, i imagine that i can see deeper into the forest.  And it becomes magical there, beckoning to be in an ethereal sense.  The animals all convene in an unlikely way...an almost uncomfortable way.  Waiting.  And it dawns on me that they are expecting no one but me.  Sometimes the story darkens, and they don't just wait, they lie in wait.  Intentions much different, much more animalistic.

And i realize again that I'm just staring out my window, but i still feel the intense pull to look further through the trees.  To see if they're there, if they still wait, and if their eyes are the murderous color red i was expecting.

My personal airport musical, if only the performers could see themselves now.

Have you ever felt as if you were removed from the world around you; as if you were part of a one person audience simply watching the world unfold around you?  You could watch, but you could not join the masses.  Arriving to the airport today, I experienced just this. 

Order exists in this small subenvironment that does not exist outside it.  I arrive, a part of the masses following the clearly defined security route to my terminal and specified gate.  Although I am among these people, I do not feel part of their world.  There is some separation between them and I; some invisible barrier that clearly defines our separate paths.  Feeling this, I withdraw, succumbing to an isolation I have become comfortable with.  The world has never been something that I could comfortably bear, those around me creating pressures and disturbances that were just too much for me to handle being a part of.  So maybe, in truth, I am the reason I do not belong.  Maybe I am the reason I simply watch from the sidelines as the world continues on in front of me, but not entirely with me.

And as these thoughts begin to overcome me, I choose to turn it off.  I intend to put these headphones over my ears and shut my eyes so tightly that it disappears completely, but as the chaos around me is silenced and the beat of my music pumps through my ears, i cannot help but wonder at the silent movement of those around me.  They move, but cannot shuffle.  They rush, but cannot clamber.  Normal sounds are muffled, and without them everything gains a grace it could not before.  It becomes a world that I can tolerate, even imagine myself within.  

I have an irrational thought that the people surrounding me are trapped within a musical, unconsciously waiting for the perfect moment to burst into song, or begin dancing in the middle of this crowded airport.  Some even seem to move in sync with the pound of the drums, appear to gyrate in sync to the guitar.  A man on his cell phone could even be mouthing the lyrics.  But there is no sound, except for the band that only I can hear.

And I'm the only one watching such an awe-inspiring performance, drinking in each perfect second. I cannot help but wonder how to join them, how to find such synchronicity and grace in this world.  Can it even exist, though, outside of these headphones and the walls of this small airport?  When people are not confined to an order such as this one, will they act the same?  Will I still want to live among them?  The questions go on and on and again I feel as if I might drown in it.  And even though I want to savor every moment of this performance, I again close my eyes tightly and wish it all away.  Hoping to find that when I open them again that it has not changed.

And in solitude I pray for the day that I too can live within my own version of that life, where I can be comfortable knowing that I am not alone anymore, and happiness is only one track away.

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.

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.

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?