When I was 25, I had been married 5 years, had a 2 year old and an infant. I thought I had my life figured out. I thought I knew who I was and where I was going. I married the love of my life. I was in love beyond imagination. At 25, I had been in love with this man for 10 years already. At current age, I have been in love with this man half my life. Well, I would have been if I were still in love with him.
I didn't just wake up one day and fall out of love. I had the love drained from me, slowly and painfully. One day, in August 2008, I was lying in bed with him, listening to how much he just realized that he loved me... Although it wasn't really me, not the me that was in existence in that bed with him. He was in love with the idea of me that he created in his head. He was in love with the me he dated in high school. That was what he was reminiscing about; that was what he loved.
At that point, right in the middle of that conversation, I heard in my head and felt in my heart a "pop" that would change my life forever. That one day, that pop sound I heard, was simply the last of the love draining out of my heart. It isn't like I married the wrong person and we simply grew apart. He, as literally as possible, drained and emotionally beat the love out of me. It is unfathomable to think about even though I experienced it. I would rather have been physically beaten than to endure what I endured. I would rather have physical bruises and scars that I could show people, that even I could see for myself.
Instead, I have apparently become some sort of strange hybrid between an emotional vampire, desperately trying to suck back into me all that has been taken, and an emotional rapist, uncontrollably shoving my emotions into someone who isn't interested in them. I'm aware. I know I do it. I try desperately not to. And I am completely unsuccessful. It is misery to know how ferociously I do it and how I cannot figure out how to control it.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Head and Heart
What do you do when your head and your heart are disconnected? I know, in my head, that I am not loved in return, but my heart wants so badly for that to not be so. I know, in my head, that this relationship is certain to break my heart and my spirit. It has already done both to certain extents at different times. I know, in my head, that staying in this relationship is not a good choice for me. I know, in my head, that I will never have what I want from him. And I know, in my head, that he is exactly like what I just left, he is the familiar, and he is yet another, in a long line, of the type I always seem to find - the type that, somehow, I think needs to be saved. Now, I know, in my head, that none of these men that I love can be saved by me, and more importantly, they don't want to be saved, and they don't want me.
What do I do when my heart and my head do not communicate properly? I feel, in my heart, compassion and love and pain at once, and my head is not on board with what my heart will accept. I feel, in my heart, a desire to hold and be held by someone in whose arms I feel true comfort. I found that, and I will lose that soon enough, and that is true fear. I feel, in my heart, that I am a good person for him. I feel, in my heart, that he will never see that in me. And I feel, in my heart, that he will continue to be exactly what I don't need because that is the kind of person he is, and that is the kind of person he has built himself to be, and that is what he will be, no matter the cost to himself or others. Now, I feel, in my heart of hearts, that love is a gift that I continuously tie with expectations that cannot ever be met by him.
What do I do when my heart and my head do not communicate properly? I feel, in my heart, compassion and love and pain at once, and my head is not on board with what my heart will accept. I feel, in my heart, a desire to hold and be held by someone in whose arms I feel true comfort. I found that, and I will lose that soon enough, and that is true fear. I feel, in my heart, that I am a good person for him. I feel, in my heart, that he will never see that in me. And I feel, in my heart, that he will continue to be exactly what I don't need because that is the kind of person he is, and that is the kind of person he has built himself to be, and that is what he will be, no matter the cost to himself or others. Now, I feel, in my heart of hearts, that love is a gift that I continuously tie with expectations that cannot ever be met by him.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
White Lies - 10thDoM Fear In Shattered Color
Blink and you'll miss. It's a dull grey thud. The slow motion, stop-animation, out of left field blow right into the heart. It's an unfortunate reality, the heart-breaking whiplash and shattering sounds of unrequited love.
You are my worst fear. You are him all over again, and I can't seem to pull myself away. You are pushing me away, and I hate you for it. I hate the way you have deep red power over me. I hate the way you know it and how you use it.
Look at your hands. Are they rusty and blood-stained yet? You wouldn't be able to hear the ear-piercing shatter and scream inside me anyhow. It's a good thing that I'm too naive to know I should shut you out, afraid of losing you.
I'm always in fear. But I don't know how to close up shop, not say what I feel, what I mean. I am not in control of myself, my emotional reactions. I cannot control the blue tears, no matter how much I try. There's little I truly control.
You've gone away. I'm feeling abandoned here in the home you vacillate between claiming and shunning. It's torture to call you but worse not hearing your voice. It's a constant sadness to hear your yellow-bellied coward tone.
I'm not in control. You're sleeping flesh-tone naked in someone else's bed. I'm tired of all the tug-of-war. I'm tired of your vacillation. I'm tired of you acting on what you think you should be instead of what you are. I'm tired of it all.
Figure it out. Decide what you want, and be sure. Don't call me your girlfriend and then retract, don't act like you're my boyfriend and then run away. Quit being a newly green child. Quit being unsure. Quit breaking my heart.
You're either in or out. I'm willing to let you be my worst fear, falling in love, and having to walk away in the end. I'm willing to shatter into pieces over you later to have you now. Your shade is dulling though. Viole(n)t colors fade.
It's a disappointment. The friend I thought you were turns into the black-hearted enemy I didn't need again. I thought a deep friendship foraged over the months when you were miles away would save me from your other you.
Actions are telling. I'm hanging onto disaster, living the dreams of my worst fears. I keep fighting to stay when I should walk away. I'm craving the white knight you said you were instead of the white lies I now know you to be.
You are my worst fear. You are him all over again, and I can't seem to pull myself away. You are pushing me away, and I hate you for it. I hate the way you have deep red power over me. I hate the way you know it and how you use it.
Look at your hands. Are they rusty and blood-stained yet? You wouldn't be able to hear the ear-piercing shatter and scream inside me anyhow. It's a good thing that I'm too naive to know I should shut you out, afraid of losing you.
I'm always in fear. But I don't know how to close up shop, not say what I feel, what I mean. I am not in control of myself, my emotional reactions. I cannot control the blue tears, no matter how much I try. There's little I truly control.
You've gone away. I'm feeling abandoned here in the home you vacillate between claiming and shunning. It's torture to call you but worse not hearing your voice. It's a constant sadness to hear your yellow-bellied coward tone.
I'm not in control. You're sleeping flesh-tone naked in someone else's bed. I'm tired of all the tug-of-war. I'm tired of your vacillation. I'm tired of you acting on what you think you should be instead of what you are. I'm tired of it all.
Figure it out. Decide what you want, and be sure. Don't call me your girlfriend and then retract, don't act like you're my boyfriend and then run away. Quit being a newly green child. Quit being unsure. Quit breaking my heart.
You're either in or out. I'm willing to let you be my worst fear, falling in love, and having to walk away in the end. I'm willing to shatter into pieces over you later to have you now. Your shade is dulling though. Viole(n)t colors fade.
It's a disappointment. The friend I thought you were turns into the black-hearted enemy I didn't need again. I thought a deep friendship foraged over the months when you were miles away would save me from your other you.
Actions are telling. I'm hanging onto disaster, living the dreams of my worst fears. I keep fighting to stay when I should walk away. I'm craving the white knight you said you were instead of the white lies I now know you to be.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Broken Soul - 10thDoM Threshold
As he carried me over the threshold on our honeymoon, he told me he didn't love me. I should've listened then. For ten years, I have endured that lack of love, and now I am living in the Hell that I didn't want for myself or my children. I am living the life I didn't believe would happen to me. I am broken into a million little pieces.
It all started when I was fifteen. I fell in love. It was such an intense love that when he broke my heart in a malicious and disgusting way, I erased his behavior from my mind and vowed that if he ever came back into my life, I would drop everything and move anywhere and do whatever it took to be with him. And that's what I did.
It was my fault. I was bored, and I wondered how his life was going. It had been nearly 5 years since he'd broken my heart, but he was still deeply embedded in there. I made the phone call that changed my life. Within 2 weeks of that phone call, we were engaged. I was 20 years old. He treated me like gold, and I loved him beyond all else.
Six months later, we were married in a beautiful garden ceremony, and coming from two disturbingly broken homes, we were the poster children for success and change. And we have failed. On our honeymoon, he told me he didn't love me. And I didn't believe him because it was said in an angry moment. Sometimes angry moments yield deep truths.
Ten years, two amazing children, and an irreversibly broken soul later, those words ring truer in my ears and in my heart than ever before. I should've heard him the first time.
It all started when I was fifteen. I fell in love. It was such an intense love that when he broke my heart in a malicious and disgusting way, I erased his behavior from my mind and vowed that if he ever came back into my life, I would drop everything and move anywhere and do whatever it took to be with him. And that's what I did.
It was my fault. I was bored, and I wondered how his life was going. It had been nearly 5 years since he'd broken my heart, but he was still deeply embedded in there. I made the phone call that changed my life. Within 2 weeks of that phone call, we were engaged. I was 20 years old. He treated me like gold, and I loved him beyond all else.
Six months later, we were married in a beautiful garden ceremony, and coming from two disturbingly broken homes, we were the poster children for success and change. And we have failed. On our honeymoon, he told me he didn't love me. And I didn't believe him because it was said in an angry moment. Sometimes angry moments yield deep truths.
Ten years, two amazing children, and an irreversibly broken soul later, those words ring truer in my ears and in my heart than ever before. I should've heard him the first time.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Look
Poetry to Prose VI
My acid tongue will burn you, eat into your heart, and corrode it away. To an outsider, they're mere words, but I'll rip to shreds all you've ever known, and you'll love it, you'll take it. You'll beg for my newly sharpened tongue to cut deep into your soul, into that wall you built. You don't know what evil dwells here pleading to be unleashed and set free, to spread her murderous rage and slide her rusty iron hands around your throat to choke your words, crush your air, and leave her handprint branded on your neck. It will be a permanent reminder every time you look in the mirror. Those words, those killing words, and the massacre your eyes laid on me. Look at me and see yourself. Turn your coward eyes on me now. Look at me and see your creation. Love the sharp acid tongue, and invoke its use, take it inside. Feel the fire, the blazing wound, and watch your sanguine covered hands ball into fists. It's futile to resist. You'll look at me and beg for more.
My acid tongue will burn you, eat into your heart, and corrode it away. To an outsider, they're mere words, but I'll rip to shreds all you've ever known, and you'll love it, you'll take it. You'll beg for my newly sharpened tongue to cut deep into your soul, into that wall you built. You don't know what evil dwells here pleading to be unleashed and set free, to spread her murderous rage and slide her rusty iron hands around your throat to choke your words, crush your air, and leave her handprint branded on your neck. It will be a permanent reminder every time you look in the mirror. Those words, those killing words, and the massacre your eyes laid on me. Look at me and see yourself. Turn your coward eyes on me now. Look at me and see your creation. Love the sharp acid tongue, and invoke its use, take it inside. Feel the fire, the blazing wound, and watch your sanguine covered hands ball into fists. It's futile to resist. You'll look at me and beg for more.
Ocean
Poetry to Prose V
You move in and out, my ocean, and I know all is not said. Your waves come crashing in unexpectedly harsh since I wasn't looking your way. It's all a little too soon; I hadn't braced myself well. Your salt angers my wounds, and I only want more as you wash easily into my sores, dangerously deep. Since then I've been aware that it's all too much, and I'm not ready quite yet. You drag me deep underneath, and I can hardly breathe. Your ripples distort my visions, my impenetrable trance; I was daydreaming anyway. It's a little too dark in here, and I didn't hold myself high enough to keep your rough tides from pushing me away, but I know how things are. You flow effortlessly through me, disturbingly coarse since I was imagining softness, and now it's all I feel. I can't stand steady here. You cleanse all you pass through, and I am clearly gone, but your flow wears me down more, perfectly smooth since I wasn't moving away. I stood a little too still for you. I haven't found myself yet.
You move in and out, my ocean, and I know all is not said. Your waves come crashing in unexpectedly harsh since I wasn't looking your way. It's all a little too soon; I hadn't braced myself well. Your salt angers my wounds, and I only want more as you wash easily into my sores, dangerously deep. Since then I've been aware that it's all too much, and I'm not ready quite yet. You drag me deep underneath, and I can hardly breathe. Your ripples distort my visions, my impenetrable trance; I was daydreaming anyway. It's a little too dark in here, and I didn't hold myself high enough to keep your rough tides from pushing me away, but I know how things are. You flow effortlessly through me, disturbingly coarse since I was imagining softness, and now it's all I feel. I can't stand steady here. You cleanse all you pass through, and I am clearly gone, but your flow wears me down more, perfectly smooth since I wasn't moving away. I stood a little too still for you. I haven't found myself yet.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
My Morning Dream
Poetry to Prose IV
He's a beautiful dream unable to withstand the morning sunlight, a whisper in the breaking dawn, and I wonder if he's real. He shines lonely over the divergent paths I'm traveling now, the gravelly crunch beneath my feet. There's no broken glass here. A beautiful sadness emanates radiantly through his ice blue eyes, deceptively clear but walled behind. I wonder what he feels. His image retreats into an abyss of softly faded dreams I've had, dreams no longer able to be recalled, just a wavering thought. He'd dive headfirst into an empty concrete pool and land softly there; I'd just drown happily in his eyes. I wonder why that is? He's all white marble and copper waves flowing through my fingertips, and I know I'll never be able to hold my morning dream.
He's a beautiful dream unable to withstand the morning sunlight, a whisper in the breaking dawn, and I wonder if he's real. He shines lonely over the divergent paths I'm traveling now, the gravelly crunch beneath my feet. There's no broken glass here. A beautiful sadness emanates radiantly through his ice blue eyes, deceptively clear but walled behind. I wonder what he feels. His image retreats into an abyss of softly faded dreams I've had, dreams no longer able to be recalled, just a wavering thought. He'd dive headfirst into an empty concrete pool and land softly there; I'd just drown happily in his eyes. I wonder why that is? He's all white marble and copper waves flowing through my fingertips, and I know I'll never be able to hold my morning dream.
Strange Breeze
Poetry to Prose III
I'm waking a stranger in my own bed, unrecognizable in disguise. It's always the same silhouette, but now with newly saddened eyes. Sit down, listen, repeat, play; it's my mistake to make. So let me, and let me go. Underestimate the draw and wonder if it's mere reaction. I wish it were; I don't want it to be more. It's my perfect situation, but the timing is cruel. Then again, isn't it always?
My pieces no longer fit the way I once knew or thought. This stranger-she's not special, she's just like every other one. I can feel the bricks being carefully placed silently so as not to disturb. You were hoping I wouldn't notice, but I do. And when I do, I daydream and drown. I'm lost without my map, and my jagged puzzle pieces are struggling to find a fit, to regroup, rebuild and make sense.
Let me look at you a little longer there in the doorway before you go and I stay, watching alone and waiting for the hard hit at the bottom of your well. Waiting for the soul-dulling pain that I love only because it's the only time I can feel. Remind me I'm alive. I'll take it and love it because I can. I'll ache and love you anyhow.
Swandive into the rosebushes, hoping for thorns to rip completely through. My metamorphosis from stranger to thief, quietly crafting, oppositely drafting. Kiss me gently across the street; I'm bitten at the curb. Consider me a novel unwritten, with constant tears in paper, down my face. Unstoppable water rips, hidden by gentle words and soft smiles, kind eyes and loving touches.
It's all my fault. I'd be different if I could. I'd set you afire, but the best I can do is softly flickering candles laid gently beside your bed, waiting with certain anticipation to be blown out. A gentle breeze from your lips kills me just the same.
I'm waking a stranger in my own bed, unrecognizable in disguise. It's always the same silhouette, but now with newly saddened eyes. Sit down, listen, repeat, play; it's my mistake to make. So let me, and let me go. Underestimate the draw and wonder if it's mere reaction. I wish it were; I don't want it to be more. It's my perfect situation, but the timing is cruel. Then again, isn't it always?
My pieces no longer fit the way I once knew or thought. This stranger-she's not special, she's just like every other one. I can feel the bricks being carefully placed silently so as not to disturb. You were hoping I wouldn't notice, but I do. And when I do, I daydream and drown. I'm lost without my map, and my jagged puzzle pieces are struggling to find a fit, to regroup, rebuild and make sense.
Let me look at you a little longer there in the doorway before you go and I stay, watching alone and waiting for the hard hit at the bottom of your well. Waiting for the soul-dulling pain that I love only because it's the only time I can feel. Remind me I'm alive. I'll take it and love it because I can. I'll ache and love you anyhow.
Swandive into the rosebushes, hoping for thorns to rip completely through. My metamorphosis from stranger to thief, quietly crafting, oppositely drafting. Kiss me gently across the street; I'm bitten at the curb. Consider me a novel unwritten, with constant tears in paper, down my face. Unstoppable water rips, hidden by gentle words and soft smiles, kind eyes and loving touches.
It's all my fault. I'd be different if I could. I'd set you afire, but the best I can do is softly flickering candles laid gently beside your bed, waiting with certain anticipation to be blown out. A gentle breeze from your lips kills me just the same.
Not Going
Poetry to Prose II
Believe it or not, I know that where I'm going is not what we agreed, but I'm not headed to the furthest realm. I'm not going there again, babe. No, I'm not going there again. Listen to my words and hear me, please. No... See me in my elemental image. Feel the dirt underneath your fingernails, and wash your hands in me. Watch me dissolve, just you watch.
Wish me away from you now, and quit enjoying your reflection in my eyes. Just sleep and dream my dreams into oblivion. Play in the sound of breath, my love. Breathe, my love. Build it; she will come at you yet and be everything you never wanted. Don't look back when your dreams come because the truth lies to your heart, and you'll never know you never knew.
Glow bright. It's beautiful on you. I'll finger the lines across your face, trace your profile, tangle my fingers in your hair, let them linger along bodily lines. My touch fades slight; I'll fade away. Believe me when I say, I wish I weren't here. I'm flying where I'd rather walk alone or at least floating when I should stand. I'm not going anywhere now, I know. I'm not going there again.
Believe it or not, I know that where I'm going is not what we agreed, but I'm not headed to the furthest realm. I'm not going there again, babe. No, I'm not going there again. Listen to my words and hear me, please. No... See me in my elemental image. Feel the dirt underneath your fingernails, and wash your hands in me. Watch me dissolve, just you watch.
Wish me away from you now, and quit enjoying your reflection in my eyes. Just sleep and dream my dreams into oblivion. Play in the sound of breath, my love. Breathe, my love. Build it; she will come at you yet and be everything you never wanted. Don't look back when your dreams come because the truth lies to your heart, and you'll never know you never knew.
Glow bright. It's beautiful on you. I'll finger the lines across your face, trace your profile, tangle my fingers in your hair, let them linger along bodily lines. My touch fades slight; I'll fade away. Believe me when I say, I wish I weren't here. I'm flying where I'd rather walk alone or at least floating when I should stand. I'm not going anywhere now, I know. I'm not going there again.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Poetry to Prose
I'm going to be experimenting in the next little while with converting some of my poetry into prose. JeffScape has always thought my poetry was more like prose anyhow, so might as well see if that works. "Clairvoyance" is the first of that effort.
Clairvoyance
I started writing this for you before I ever touched you. I couldn't have known how accurate it would be until I felt you in my arms, and you were even better than I imagined...
I can feel you from a thousand miles away, feel your breath on my ear and the air that escapes from your lips. Imagine that as you hover your face so close to mine that the warmth of your face radiates between us and I sync my breath, my heartbeat to yours, I close my eyes, invite your lips to mine. I can feel your fingers slide up my thigh, and glide gently around my hip to caress the small of my back, trace the outline of my body, find my waist in your hands.
I can close my eyes and see you here. How my heart aches to see you go, and how it flutters and skips with barely a glance and shudders with a jolt when you touch my skin. I love to see you watching me watching you and how the corners of your mouth turn up when you realize how fixated I am on you. How your eyes reflect that you know exactly what I look like, the curves of my frame beneath my insignificant clothes.
I can feel your weight coming down on me as my hands glide around your back, fingers arched, pressing deep into your flesh, smoothing over your skin, pulling you closer, deeper into me, into us. It's been so very long, and it feels like forever since I've felt a heart reaching into mine. I imagine I've pressed my lips so soft against yours and savored your flavor on the tip of my tongue. It's been forever since I've wanted to lace my fingers, intertwined my hand with another, since I've wanted to press that hand hard across the sheets.
I can feel my hand locked into yours, pressing into your pillows while I breathe the scent of your body, getting high from your essence. I'll trace my nose down your neck, onto your chest, inhaling every inch of you because I love to breathe you in. I'll run my fingers through your hair, trailing them along your jaw, and stare into your eyes. I'll pull you closer, close my eyes and breathe deeper than ever before because I love the way you smell, and I love the coolness of your skin, and I love the way I feel when you hold me so tight I can barely breathe. And in those moments, in your arms, I remember that I knew what this would be like before you ever were.
I can feel you from a thousand miles away, feel your breath on my ear and the air that escapes from your lips. Imagine that as you hover your face so close to mine that the warmth of your face radiates between us and I sync my breath, my heartbeat to yours, I close my eyes, invite your lips to mine. I can feel your fingers slide up my thigh, and glide gently around my hip to caress the small of my back, trace the outline of my body, find my waist in your hands.
I can close my eyes and see you here. How my heart aches to see you go, and how it flutters and skips with barely a glance and shudders with a jolt when you touch my skin. I love to see you watching me watching you and how the corners of your mouth turn up when you realize how fixated I am on you. How your eyes reflect that you know exactly what I look like, the curves of my frame beneath my insignificant clothes.
I can feel your weight coming down on me as my hands glide around your back, fingers arched, pressing deep into your flesh, smoothing over your skin, pulling you closer, deeper into me, into us. It's been so very long, and it feels like forever since I've felt a heart reaching into mine. I imagine I've pressed my lips so soft against yours and savored your flavor on the tip of my tongue. It's been forever since I've wanted to lace my fingers, intertwined my hand with another, since I've wanted to press that hand hard across the sheets.
I can feel my hand locked into yours, pressing into your pillows while I breathe the scent of your body, getting high from your essence. I'll trace my nose down your neck, onto your chest, inhaling every inch of you because I love to breathe you in. I'll run my fingers through your hair, trailing them along your jaw, and stare into your eyes. I'll pull you closer, close my eyes and breathe deeper than ever before because I love the way you smell, and I love the coolness of your skin, and I love the way I feel when you hold me so tight I can barely breathe. And in those moments, in your arms, I remember that I knew what this would be like before you ever were.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Muddy Sunday - 10thDoM If Geeks Ruled The World...
I'd rise above it all if I could, and sweep it all under the rug where no one ever looks. I'd drive hard into the sunlight with my radio blaring high, and love you without pain in my eyes. I'd run in all directions at once, and crawl across muddy puddles in my Sunday best. I'd dream in black and white, and wash the color swatches from my geeky little mind. I'd swing up to the moon and back, and touch the clouds with my saddle oxford shoes. I'd ride bicycles backwards, and litter banana peels in tomato gardens. I'd play Scrabble til my eyes would bleed, and win your heart by letting you get the brown wedge in Trivial Pursuit. I'd creep along the hallway walls, and jump out with a full-breathed "boo!" I'd cry only at commercials with monkeys and their big brown eyes, and hold my tears in when all I want to do is whine. I'd sleep curled into a fetal ball, and surround myself with a representative Twelve stuffed bears. I'd shine my smile along the way, if I ruled the world.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Exhale - 10thDoM Moon
Dive in. Head first. I'm water; I'll flow, you say. Slowly, I tiptoe to your crest, and I can feel the rush of cool moving in, lingering for a moment, retreating slowly, begging for the tips of my toes. I laugh at the idea, but it makes me smile. So I climb to higher land for a better view, am awed by what I see. Exhale. To breathe is a luxury these days. I'd love to swim freely through your waters, feel you wash over me, your flowing currents playfully surrounding me. Don't look back. The air is thinning, the sky is black and the moon is high. I can't stay up here forever.
I close my eyes and listen. Your night voice is calming, calling. I'm still hesitant, standing at your edge. Going back is not an option. I need to get away from the fire. He is destroying me. Deep breath. I'm in, I say, not sure if you'll catch me, but hoping you will. The sting of my bad form breaking through your surface is jolting. I realize your waters are unsteady and I can't swim. Your waves crush against my chest, my heart, pushing me away, driving me to the shallow ends. I'm suffocating beneath the weight of your impact. Washed to shore, the sand is rough; there's not enough of you here yet to hold me high enough to breathe.
Pushed too hard, too fast. Now those same surface tides that pushed me out slide underneath themselves, holding fast, pulling me back into you with their stronger undercurrents. You are water. You do flow. But you do not control your tides, and I cannot control the moon. She waxes and wanes in her own time, and I am helpless to fight as she phases through you. Crash into me, push me away, pull me in, hold me up, let me float. You're not what I expected. I'm not what you wanted. But your waters are calm for now and I can breathe. Exhale.
I close my eyes and listen. Your night voice is calming, calling. I'm still hesitant, standing at your edge. Going back is not an option. I need to get away from the fire. He is destroying me. Deep breath. I'm in, I say, not sure if you'll catch me, but hoping you will. The sting of my bad form breaking through your surface is jolting. I realize your waters are unsteady and I can't swim. Your waves crush against my chest, my heart, pushing me away, driving me to the shallow ends. I'm suffocating beneath the weight of your impact. Washed to shore, the sand is rough; there's not enough of you here yet to hold me high enough to breathe.
Pushed too hard, too fast. Now those same surface tides that pushed me out slide underneath themselves, holding fast, pulling me back into you with their stronger undercurrents. You are water. You do flow. But you do not control your tides, and I cannot control the moon. She waxes and wanes in her own time, and I am helpless to fight as she phases through you. Crash into me, push me away, pull me in, hold me up, let me float. You're not what I expected. I'm not what you wanted. But your waters are calm for now and I can breathe. Exhale.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Authentic You
There is disjointed space holding her own reality, quickly realizing that being authentic is not in the stars of people who create themselves in images projected upon them. Looking into the mirror clearly, honesty is nearly impossible when we cannot cope with the oceans of emotions surrounding us each day. Being organic, able to shift, allowing the tides to rise and fall, without barriers is beautifully dangerous and brave. Going back to what we know, where we feel comfortable, to find our true way is admirable, enviable. Retreating back to what we know, our comfort zone, out of fear and desperation is a coward's play.
Creating ourselves in false images of our imagined fate is failure of character. Falter when it is time to falter, pick up, look inside, move forward, move on. Dream to be a different person tomorrow than today, a better person, an authentic heart. Dare to have the character to know yourself genuinely and without embellishment. The authentic self is open and healing, full of hope and dreams while being firmly grounded. It is non-harming, non-stealing. It is pure and content, insightful, divine.
Reassess the known self at every turn. Self constantly changes and churns, swaying a little, allowing for the merging and separating of paths. The power given - the trust, the respect, the love, the experience - are gifts that fall away without consideration. Without consideration, there is nothing to hold. Without consideration, walls are constructed and cores are pushed, and the physical manifestations of pain are real and damaging and permanent. If that is the authentic path, then stand up and be succinct, be sure and direct. Be sure, be honest, be real, be true. Be authentic you.
Creating ourselves in false images of our imagined fate is failure of character. Falter when it is time to falter, pick up, look inside, move forward, move on. Dream to be a different person tomorrow than today, a better person, an authentic heart. Dare to have the character to know yourself genuinely and without embellishment. The authentic self is open and healing, full of hope and dreams while being firmly grounded. It is non-harming, non-stealing. It is pure and content, insightful, divine.
Reassess the known self at every turn. Self constantly changes and churns, swaying a little, allowing for the merging and separating of paths. The power given - the trust, the respect, the love, the experience - are gifts that fall away without consideration. Without consideration, there is nothing to hold. Without consideration, walls are constructed and cores are pushed, and the physical manifestations of pain are real and damaging and permanent. If that is the authentic path, then stand up and be succinct, be sure and direct. Be sure, be honest, be real, be true. Be authentic you.
Monday, October 19, 2009
A Letter - 10thDoM The Time In Between
I'm going numb again. I'm disconnecting. I can feel the distance you're pushing tied to the walls you're building, and it's damaging me. I feel more tears behind my eyes than smiles crossing my lips when I think of you now. It's deja vu, and I don't want you to be like him, but you are. I can feel myself starting to turn away. I won't scream and shout. This is as loud as I'll be.
Tell me how unhealthy I am for you right after you tell me I'm the only healthy thing you have. Lay the blame on me when you can't figure out what you feel, when your head is fucked by someone else. You'd rather it be me; I'm the easier target, easier to let go. You'll never fully know what that did to me. It's not retractable. Tell me you miss me, then show me how many ways you can ignore me. Make sure you'd rather spend time with someone who makes it a mission to make you feel bad every time you're in their presence. Whisper how much you like the things I have, conveniently leave me out of the equation. I always wonder what happens in your times in between. Don't look for fires from me. The best I can do is a few sad tears.
You begged for me to lean on you, and I let myself go. I let myself believe in you and nowadays when I need to lean the most, you slip to the side. It's just enough to let me sink rather than fall. Do you convince yourself I won't notice you've moved? I can feel my bubble about to burst. Push me away because you think I feel too much or because you're too afraid. I know it's survival for you, but sometimes what we do to survive kills the things we love. I can't fight for you much more.
I feel you wanting to say something but holding it in, feeling the pressure. We're both collapsing. I melt when I'm in your presence, don't want to ruin the times I have with you. When I'm with you, I can breathe. It's the times in between and your arbitrary walls that are breaking me down. There are no fires, no screaming, no fighting. I may be in pieces, but I'm still unbroken.
*small edit in 2nd paragraph on 10/24/09
Tell me how unhealthy I am for you right after you tell me I'm the only healthy thing you have. Lay the blame on me when you can't figure out what you feel, when your head is fucked by someone else. You'd rather it be me; I'm the easier target, easier to let go. You'll never fully know what that did to me. It's not retractable. Tell me you miss me, then show me how many ways you can ignore me. Make sure you'd rather spend time with someone who makes it a mission to make you feel bad every time you're in their presence. Whisper how much you like the things I have, conveniently leave me out of the equation. I always wonder what happens in your times in between. Don't look for fires from me. The best I can do is a few sad tears.
You begged for me to lean on you, and I let myself go. I let myself believe in you and nowadays when I need to lean the most, you slip to the side. It's just enough to let me sink rather than fall. Do you convince yourself I won't notice you've moved? I can feel my bubble about to burst. Push me away because you think I feel too much or because you're too afraid. I know it's survival for you, but sometimes what we do to survive kills the things we love. I can't fight for you much more.
I feel you wanting to say something but holding it in, feeling the pressure. We're both collapsing. I melt when I'm in your presence, don't want to ruin the times I have with you. When I'm with you, I can breathe. It's the times in between and your arbitrary walls that are breaking me down. There are no fires, no screaming, no fighting. I may be in pieces, but I'm still unbroken.
*small edit in 2nd paragraph on 10/24/09
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Dream Boy - 10thDoM Trapped
The first time she was comfortable in someone's arms, it was with someone who didn't really want her. He'd wooed her over the course of some months, but it had all been part of a game. His words had been exactly what she needed to hear at exactly the right time. He became her exhale at the end of each increasingly tumultuous day.
He'd become a fan of her poetry, repetitive as was, and had realized that she was in a vulnerable state, the perfect prey for his favorite game. Her life was falling to pieces around her, and he knew exactly how he would play her. The first correspondence was innocent enough. He was trying to stay in touch with the world back home; she needed a new ear but remained appropriately vague.
On their first meeting, more than two years prior, she had felt a connection to him that she hadn't believed could exist. She was more excited than she should have been every time she saw him in class. When he became a colleague instead of a student, she was relieved to have someone comforting in class with her, and when he left, she felt an emptiness she couldn't comprehend.
On their last meeting, just a few months prior, she had felt the heaviness of some intention that couldn't quite find its way out of him. She always missed his presence when he was gone and hoped for his safe return. She never could figure out why she felt so drawn to him, but she secretly thought about him often and wished they could be more.
When he finally did return home, he came straight to her, wrapped himself in her and her in him. She was everything he never wanted, and he was better than she'd imagined, though she knew it was a lie. She knew him better than he knew himself, but that only made her feel worse. Everything she'd ever dreamed of was trapped in the body of a boy who would never want to be her man.
He'd become a fan of her poetry, repetitive as was, and had realized that she was in a vulnerable state, the perfect prey for his favorite game. Her life was falling to pieces around her, and he knew exactly how he would play her. The first correspondence was innocent enough. He was trying to stay in touch with the world back home; she needed a new ear but remained appropriately vague.
On their first meeting, more than two years prior, she had felt a connection to him that she hadn't believed could exist. She was more excited than she should have been every time she saw him in class. When he became a colleague instead of a student, she was relieved to have someone comforting in class with her, and when he left, she felt an emptiness she couldn't comprehend.
On their last meeting, just a few months prior, she had felt the heaviness of some intention that couldn't quite find its way out of him. She always missed his presence when he was gone and hoped for his safe return. She never could figure out why she felt so drawn to him, but she secretly thought about him often and wished they could be more.
When he finally did return home, he came straight to her, wrapped himself in her and her in him. She was everything he never wanted, and he was better than she'd imagined, though she knew it was a lie. She knew him better than he knew himself, but that only made her feel worse. Everything she'd ever dreamed of was trapped in the body of a boy who would never want to be her man.
Expendable - TT Collection
I have a vast collection of a certain kind of man. I collect the puer aeternus - eternal boys. I collect the narcissistic, the needy, the kind of man who loves to be mothered as long as he's not smothered. Every love of my life, every significant man in my life has been a puer. The common denominator is me, so I cannot blame them for my feelings of under-appreciation and hurt for they cannot see that they do anything wrong, and maybe they don't. Maybe it is just me.
I'd love to stop collecting boys and learn to collect men. Real men. Men who aren't scared of communication and compromise. Men who don't base their manliness on how awesome they are at their war games. Men who aren't afraid to be vulnerable or wrong. Men who are confident and a little cocky for good reason. Men who aren't afraid to man up and face the music even when they know the music won't be pleasant. Real men.
I collect a certain kind of man though. And I can't help but wonder why I love these men. Why I want better for them than they want for themselves. Why I see potential in them that they don't think is possible. I like being naive, but sometimes, it's painful. It's painful to watch men destroy themselves and their relationships because of pride or because they see relationships as games. There is a certain confidence that allows men to think that the people who love them will take hit after hit and keep coming back, but sometimes love just ain't enough. We're only expendable until we're gone.
I'd love to stop collecting boys and learn to collect men. Real men. Men who aren't scared of communication and compromise. Men who don't base their manliness on how awesome they are at their war games. Men who aren't afraid to be vulnerable or wrong. Men who are confident and a little cocky for good reason. Men who aren't afraid to man up and face the music even when they know the music won't be pleasant. Real men.
I collect a certain kind of man though. And I can't help but wonder why I love these men. Why I want better for them than they want for themselves. Why I see potential in them that they don't think is possible. I like being naive, but sometimes, it's painful. It's painful to watch men destroy themselves and their relationships because of pride or because they see relationships as games. There is a certain confidence that allows men to think that the people who love them will take hit after hit and keep coming back, but sometimes love just ain't enough. We're only expendable until we're gone.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Happy Hour Friday 9/25
1. Gossip Girl
2. The Millennium Series by Steig Larsson
3. The smell of the Narcissus
4. Target
5. Seeing my daughter's eyes light up when she gets to wear black, skulls, tattoos, etc. She's 6. I know. I already said that.
6. Knowing that my son is an imaginative creator. He creates elaborate train tracks, buildings, and gravity defying magnet sculptures. He's 4.
7. Having someone new to challenge the things I thought I knew about myself
8. Bacon
9. Quirky, hot, brainy men. Why are all three of those so hard to find in one person?
10. Being naive and believing in the inherent goodness of people - until they prove me wrong
2. The Millennium Series by Steig Larsson
3. The smell of the Narcissus
4. Target
5. Seeing my daughter's eyes light up when she gets to wear black, skulls, tattoos, etc. She's 6. I know. I already said that.
6. Knowing that my son is an imaginative creator. He creates elaborate train tracks, buildings, and gravity defying magnet sculptures. He's 4.
7. Having someone new to challenge the things I thought I knew about myself
8. Bacon
9. Quirky, hot, brainy men. Why are all three of those so hard to find in one person?
10. Being naive and believing in the inherent goodness of people - until they prove me wrong
Thursday, September 24, 2009
You Win - TT Wild
You win. Do you feel like a man? Wildly waging your mouse wars, eradicating my existence? Does it make you feel big? Pushing my presence aside must make you feel so powerful. How easy it is to click, click, click me away. Come on, tell me how big you must feel behind your phony electronic shield.
Vivid conversations held in black and white, through static and tears, for seven long years. Wild streams of consciousness filling the air between us, shoulders wetted with wasted tears. Never once have you been less than human to me, but I must be lower than a rat to you, and I'm so naive, I never had a clue.
I've groveled for your friendship when I had no reason to bloody my knees. The power of wild tears and sticky blood, dirty hands and strangled hair is too much for your pretty raven head to deny. I hear the smirk in your voice when you've torn someone down. I hear the valor in your smoky tongue when you've bested me.
I know it feels good to cut me out like a flimsy paper doll, wildly wielding your dingy, dull scissors. I've curled on his lap for you. I've cried on his knee. I've been punched in the gut and the salt clinging to my contacts makes it so hard to see. But while the world around is blurry, your picture is now crystal fucking clear.
Vivid conversations held in black and white, through static and tears, for seven long years. Wild streams of consciousness filling the air between us, shoulders wetted with wasted tears. Never once have you been less than human to me, but I must be lower than a rat to you, and I'm so naive, I never had a clue.
I've groveled for your friendship when I had no reason to bloody my knees. The power of wild tears and sticky blood, dirty hands and strangled hair is too much for your pretty raven head to deny. I hear the smirk in your voice when you've torn someone down. I hear the valor in your smoky tongue when you've bested me.
I know it feels good to cut me out like a flimsy paper doll, wildly wielding your dingy, dull scissors. I've curled on his lap for you. I've cried on his knee. I've been punched in the gut and the salt clinging to my contacts makes it so hard to see. But while the world around is blurry, your picture is now crystal fucking clear.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Horizon - 10DoM Distance
The horizon is foggy. The wall needed to be climbed. "Oh, joy, I can see you. It's all I want." If you hadn't been on the other side, I think I would have been too scared to pull myself over. Your breath lullabies me to sleep, through static or air. When you're not here, I dream that you are. I can't stop wanting to touch you, to feel you on my skin, to run my fingertips across yours, to tangle my body in you. I'll rest my hand in yours until the horizon is clear.
The distance isn't far. This is the way I have to go. "I'm moving on. I hope you're coming with me." Let go when you're ready; I wouldn't keep you if I could. Don't let my tears hold you here, but look me in the eye when you leave. It's all I truly ask. Kiss my worries away in the wind, for now. Whisper my insecurities far into the night, for now. Trace your name on my body; claim me for yourself. Hold me a little too tightly tonight. I'm yours, for now.
The path is narrow. I'll have to walk myself alone. "So let me, let me go. Cause you don't, and you'll never know." I promise not to look back to see if you follow on your own. What I want for you is not what I want for me. The line you travel cannot match or parallel my own, for I have to settle my path alone. Step out into the world with no one to push or pull me along. Keep saying all the right words so I can keep going. My bravery belongs to you.
The horizon is foggy. The hard part has just begun. "Knowing what you said to me beneath your breath so blatantly." To be pulled over the wall only to be forced to let go. I've let you crawl through my thoughts, linger here for a while. Weave the stories well; don't leave room for inadequacy. Give me a little push, and I'll be on my way. Sorting out the lovers from the takers is tiring, and I can't figure it out yet. Hold my hand a little longer until I do.
*Lines in quotations are lyrics from Au Revoir Simone's album, "Still Night, Still Light."
The distance isn't far. This is the way I have to go. "I'm moving on. I hope you're coming with me." Let go when you're ready; I wouldn't keep you if I could. Don't let my tears hold you here, but look me in the eye when you leave. It's all I truly ask. Kiss my worries away in the wind, for now. Whisper my insecurities far into the night, for now. Trace your name on my body; claim me for yourself. Hold me a little too tightly tonight. I'm yours, for now.
The path is narrow. I'll have to walk myself alone. "So let me, let me go. Cause you don't, and you'll never know." I promise not to look back to see if you follow on your own. What I want for you is not what I want for me. The line you travel cannot match or parallel my own, for I have to settle my path alone. Step out into the world with no one to push or pull me along. Keep saying all the right words so I can keep going. My bravery belongs to you.
The horizon is foggy. The hard part has just begun. "Knowing what you said to me beneath your breath so blatantly." To be pulled over the wall only to be forced to let go. I've let you crawl through my thoughts, linger here for a while. Weave the stories well; don't leave room for inadequacy. Give me a little push, and I'll be on my way. Sorting out the lovers from the takers is tiring, and I can't figure it out yet. Hold my hand a little longer until I do.
*Lines in quotations are lyrics from Au Revoir Simone's album, "Still Night, Still Light."
Friday, September 18, 2009
Happy Hour Friday 9/18
1. Knowing and liking the person to whom I'm going to have to pay my traffic fine.
2. Falling to sleep listening to breath behind static.
3. Being surprised by people.
4. How my daughter creates angsty songs about love and death. She's 6.
5. How my son narrates his daily activities as he does them. He's 4.
6. Izze Clementine Soda.
7. Dominos online order tracker.
8. Acting juvenile.
9. Learning new ways to explain things.
10. Laughing.
2. Falling to sleep listening to breath behind static.
3. Being surprised by people.
4. How my daughter creates angsty songs about love and death. She's 6.
5. How my son narrates his daily activities as he does them. He's 4.
6. Izze Clementine Soda.
7. Dominos online order tracker.
8. Acting juvenile.
9. Learning new ways to explain things.
10. Laughing.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Life's Obstacles - TT Over the Hill
Every day is a new adventure, a new discovery, a new challenge. Life is a grand mountain path with obstacles all along the way. Sometimes, we encounter walls that need to be knocked down or climbed over. Occasionally, we come to a river. We have to build or maybe just repair a bridge, or we might just have to dive in and swim across. There are untraveled, undiscovered paths that need to be found and cleared, not only for ourselves but for others along the way as well.
Once in a while, though, we are lucky enough to come across simple little hills that can easily be traversed. They are in open fields of green grass underneath bright blue skies with fluffy clouds providing just enough shade from the happy yellow sun. How I wish for more hills in my life.
There is little to be learned from life's hills. We simply walk up their slope, sometimes slight, sometimes steep, reach the top, and breathe easy on the way down. Once in a while, the way down is a little steep, so we must take our steps carefully, but it's good to be reminded to slow down sometimes. Carelessness is the only way to muck up the journey over the hill.
How I wish for more hills in my life. How I would love to walk in the open air, know all of my surroundings, breathe easier as I climb and descend life's gentlest obstacles. I can barely imagine the bliss of not slamming into walls, falling into murky or violent rivers, or tripping along uncharted paths. But there is little to be learned from hills.
For it is climbing the wall that makes us appreciate what is on the other side. It is pushing through the wall that teaches us how strong we can be. It is building a bridge from nothing that shows us we are capable of far beyond our imagined abilities. It is diving into the river, feeling the searing pain of hitting the bottom hard because we didn't take the time to anticipate the shallowness of the water, that teaches us to look more closely, take a little time to plan before we jump. It is the clearing of an old, forgotten pathway, having its thorns and branches tear into our skin that reminds us of pain, reminds us to appreciate the absence of pain. And it is the discovery of a new pathway that opens our eyes to the world.
The only obstacles in life that are worth facing are the ones that make us think, work, sweat, cry, fight, scream, build, destroy, and break us down. Those are the obstacles that make us learn, make us stronger, and show us how great we can be and how the world is full of endless possibilities, infinite paths, unimaginable wonders. Those are obstacles that make life truly worth living. But oh, how I wish I could simply walk over more hills.
Once in a while, though, we are lucky enough to come across simple little hills that can easily be traversed. They are in open fields of green grass underneath bright blue skies with fluffy clouds providing just enough shade from the happy yellow sun. How I wish for more hills in my life.
There is little to be learned from life's hills. We simply walk up their slope, sometimes slight, sometimes steep, reach the top, and breathe easy on the way down. Once in a while, the way down is a little steep, so we must take our steps carefully, but it's good to be reminded to slow down sometimes. Carelessness is the only way to muck up the journey over the hill.
How I wish for more hills in my life. How I would love to walk in the open air, know all of my surroundings, breathe easier as I climb and descend life's gentlest obstacles. I can barely imagine the bliss of not slamming into walls, falling into murky or violent rivers, or tripping along uncharted paths. But there is little to be learned from hills.
For it is climbing the wall that makes us appreciate what is on the other side. It is pushing through the wall that teaches us how strong we can be. It is building a bridge from nothing that shows us we are capable of far beyond our imagined abilities. It is diving into the river, feeling the searing pain of hitting the bottom hard because we didn't take the time to anticipate the shallowness of the water, that teaches us to look more closely, take a little time to plan before we jump. It is the clearing of an old, forgotten pathway, having its thorns and branches tear into our skin that reminds us of pain, reminds us to appreciate the absence of pain. And it is the discovery of a new pathway that opens our eyes to the world.
The only obstacles in life that are worth facing are the ones that make us think, work, sweat, cry, fight, scream, build, destroy, and break us down. Those are the obstacles that make us learn, make us stronger, and show us how great we can be and how the world is full of endless possibilities, infinite paths, unimaginable wonders. Those are obstacles that make life truly worth living. But oh, how I wish I could simply walk over more hills.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Happy Hour... Saturday?
Just found this... Figured some happy was needed in my blog...
Things that make me happy:
1. Going to the movies alone.
2. I don't even have to say my order aloud at Starbucks anymore.
3. Watching cable series shows on DVD because I don't have cable.
4. Creme' Brulee.
5. Newborn baby smell.
6. Being amazed by my daughter.
7. Kisses from my son.
8. Helping people conquer their fears on the mat and having it translate off the mat.
9. Cooking for people.
10. Moving home in less than a year.
Oops! Forgot the link... Sorry, otin!
http://wizardofotin.blogspot.com/2009/09/happy-hour-friday-2.html
Things that make me happy:
1. Going to the movies alone.
2. I don't even have to say my order aloud at Starbucks anymore.
3. Watching cable series shows on DVD because I don't have cable.
4. Creme' Brulee.
5. Newborn baby smell.
6. Being amazed by my daughter.
7. Kisses from my son.
8. Helping people conquer their fears on the mat and having it translate off the mat.
9. Cooking for people.
10. Moving home in less than a year.
Oops! Forgot the link... Sorry, otin!
http://wizardofotin.blogspot.com/2009/09/happy-hour-friday-2.html
Sadness, Life, and Self
My sadness flows here so that it doesn't follow me as I travel my daily path. I somewhat feel the need to give a better glimpse of my circumstances, but I'm sure they will become available the more I write. Most often, this blog is inspired by particular events that are happening right now in my life. It is an unusual situation I have created for myself, for my survival, and for my family. I am breaking the cycle.
My written self and my "out in the world" self are two completely different creatures. To know one makes the other unrecognizable. Writing the pain and sadness is the release, the therapy. It doesn't mean it goes away; it simply allows it to exist somewhere, to be acknowledged and faced and let go.
Living in the now is one of my greatest challenges. I am constantly in the comfort of the past or the fear of the future. Believing I have worth is yet another challenge. Separating myself from my self, I see great worth, but existing within, I feel less worthy somehow. I am a conundrum even to myself. It must be frustrating to truly know me sometimes, and there's only one person right now who does. I kind of like it that way.
My written self and my "out in the world" self are two completely different creatures. To know one makes the other unrecognizable. Writing the pain and sadness is the release, the therapy. It doesn't mean it goes away; it simply allows it to exist somewhere, to be acknowledged and faced and let go.
Living in the now is one of my greatest challenges. I am constantly in the comfort of the past or the fear of the future. Believing I have worth is yet another challenge. Separating myself from my self, I see great worth, but existing within, I feel less worthy somehow. I am a conundrum even to myself. It must be frustrating to truly know me sometimes, and there's only one person right now who does. I kind of like it that way.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Forgotten Love
I'm in this constant state of anticipation of the end. It's something I wish I could leave behind but something that follows me through everything in my life. Every beginning is simply the beginning of the end because everything ends. It does no good to live in its shadow, but that's where I keep finding myself.
I find myself beginning to end even newly discovered things. Walls being built and lines being drawn. Unbreakable walls and uncrossable lines. I find myself exhausted and exhausting; being in my presence must be difficult these days.
For some, I'm occasionally too giddy to stomach. Had I been happy or giddy when we met, my best friend wouldn't be my friend. For some, I'm too negative. It's easier to criticize than to praise when I'm often criticized and rarely praised. I'm always surprised when people don't criticize me and even moreso when they actually say something nice. For others, my mere existence is the problem.
I am the face of failure. The loss of hope. A constant reminder that love means nothing when it's only a noun. Love is action fueled by the soul of the heart, but love as action exists only in movies these days it seems. And those movies are reminders, over and over again, that when my blue eyes meet his green gaze, I am the face of his failure, the loss of his hope, and his forgotten love.
I find myself beginning to end even newly discovered things. Walls being built and lines being drawn. Unbreakable walls and uncrossable lines. I find myself exhausted and exhausting; being in my presence must be difficult these days.
For some, I'm occasionally too giddy to stomach. Had I been happy or giddy when we met, my best friend wouldn't be my friend. For some, I'm too negative. It's easier to criticize than to praise when I'm often criticized and rarely praised. I'm always surprised when people don't criticize me and even moreso when they actually say something nice. For others, my mere existence is the problem.
I am the face of failure. The loss of hope. A constant reminder that love means nothing when it's only a noun. Love is action fueled by the soul of the heart, but love as action exists only in movies these days it seems. And those movies are reminders, over and over again, that when my blue eyes meet his green gaze, I am the face of his failure, the loss of his hope, and his forgotten love.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Chakra 3 - TT Rhythm
Breath syncs. The sound of the ocean moves the bodies in choreographed sequences that beg for mercy. It's the good kind of pain. The pain that reminds the body it exists. The kind that challenges the mind to keep going, push through... Caturanga. Five times... No, ten. That's not enough. The sun in brightening, and the Namaskara opens the day with fingers reaching skyward.
Breath moves body. Body follows breath. There's a pulse in this moving meditation. There are no eyes. There is no corporeal body. It is all erased. Breathe. Move. It's second nature, automatic. All is released. Let go and remember the breath. Step forward, warrior. Hold the space. Believe in the possibility of positive change. Hold the space for change. Hold the space for hope.
Breath opens possibilities. Each inhale is preparation, each exhale is awakening Manipura. She is fire! She is the spark. Energy concentrates in her heart, the beginning of life, moves outward to show her full strength. She is the mother's strength, the life of intuition, the soul's guide. Consciousness is not wasted in her. She is the secret rhythm of life.
Breath moves body. Body follows breath. There's a pulse in this moving meditation. There are no eyes. There is no corporeal body. It is all erased. Breathe. Move. It's second nature, automatic. All is released. Let go and remember the breath. Step forward, warrior. Hold the space. Believe in the possibility of positive change. Hold the space for change. Hold the space for hope.
Breath opens possibilities. Each inhale is preparation, each exhale is awakening Manipura. She is fire! She is the spark. Energy concentrates in her heart, the beginning of life, moves outward to show her full strength. She is the mother's strength, the life of intuition, the soul's guide. Consciousness is not wasted in her. She is the secret rhythm of life.
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Game
It's not fun anymore. This game you've created has evolved; the rules have changed. You're not keeping up. You can't even hold up your end of the bargain. How can you expect me to hold up mine? Believing the lies you tell yourself is the coping mechanism of the weak-minded. Believing the lies you tell me is the coping mechanism of the broken hearted.
When given the opportunity to shine, you choose to shade. When given the opportunity to love, to be loved, you run away. You walk across my earth because I am strong enough to hold your weight, but you take no care, watering flowers in other fields. The footprints left behind you are forgotten as soon as they are laid. How I shift, mold to your gait, caress your soles, completely unnoticed beneath you.
I'll never be the fire burning your life down, the air you flow boundlessly through. I'm the ground you travel and only notice when I'm gone. You found me, joined my path, said all the right words, carved your place in my heart. Poured yourself in when I was too shattered to filter, took the little I had left. The chase was effortless because I was weak. The game is over because I let you in.
When given the opportunity to shine, you choose to shade. When given the opportunity to love, to be loved, you run away. You walk across my earth because I am strong enough to hold your weight, but you take no care, watering flowers in other fields. The footprints left behind you are forgotten as soon as they are laid. How I shift, mold to your gait, caress your soles, completely unnoticed beneath you.
I'll never be the fire burning your life down, the air you flow boundlessly through. I'm the ground you travel and only notice when I'm gone. You found me, joined my path, said all the right words, carved your place in my heart. Poured yourself in when I was too shattered to filter, took the little I had left. The chase was effortless because I was weak. The game is over because I let you in.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The End - TT Beginning/10DoM And So It Begins...
It begins with me being me. My brain has fully malfunctioned and I am truly beyond repair. My heart is torn between the sheets and my dreams are becoming nightmares. There is prose in the poetry of my mind, but it isn't setting itself upright. It is falling by the wayside, and it is wishing it were nothing more than a simple smile that says "hello" on a rainy, dreary day like today.
The sun is shining brightly, burning my eyes. Tears fought back with deepening breath keep stinging anyway. The reality of being put in my place, reminded of what I am and not what I pretend. Now, all I want is to set me free, to fade away, to no longer be. If I let go now, no one will catch me. If I let go now, there will be no one there.
There are mysteries that unravel themselves, tied to my bedposts, wishing they were not the knots of time and time's circumstance. Waiting patiently for the end, I caress the sides of his face, look into his faraway eyes, and see that he doesn't wish to see me but how I stay in his sight anyhow. He's enjoying his reflection in my eyes while looking straight past. I'd follow his gaze, but I know where it leads. I don't like to be reminded anymore, but he reminds me every day.
It's unhealthy, unwise; I simply choose to think it's unfortunate. Time is a cruel and unusual creature. She is fought with breath, heartbeats, and tongue lashings. We like to think she is changeable, tamable, that we are the ones with power. The beauty is in how she simply continues without care, and how we cannot help ourselves in desperation of her mercy. She smiles quietly, unaffected by our meaningless pleas.
She's in the words she thought I didn't want to hear, the touch he thought I didn't want to feel, the smile I thought they didn't want to see... She's in the tears we wipe away, the anger we try to hide, and the sadness we hold inside. She's the ripple in the water, the mound of earth beneath our feet, the inaudible heartbeat, the last sigh of breath. And so it begins, the beginning of the end.
The sun is shining brightly, burning my eyes. Tears fought back with deepening breath keep stinging anyway. The reality of being put in my place, reminded of what I am and not what I pretend. Now, all I want is to set me free, to fade away, to no longer be. If I let go now, no one will catch me. If I let go now, there will be no one there.
There are mysteries that unravel themselves, tied to my bedposts, wishing they were not the knots of time and time's circumstance. Waiting patiently for the end, I caress the sides of his face, look into his faraway eyes, and see that he doesn't wish to see me but how I stay in his sight anyhow. He's enjoying his reflection in my eyes while looking straight past. I'd follow his gaze, but I know where it leads. I don't like to be reminded anymore, but he reminds me every day.
It's unhealthy, unwise; I simply choose to think it's unfortunate. Time is a cruel and unusual creature. She is fought with breath, heartbeats, and tongue lashings. We like to think she is changeable, tamable, that we are the ones with power. The beauty is in how she simply continues without care, and how we cannot help ourselves in desperation of her mercy. She smiles quietly, unaffected by our meaningless pleas.
She's in the words she thought I didn't want to hear, the touch he thought I didn't want to feel, the smile I thought they didn't want to see... She's in the tears we wipe away, the anger we try to hide, and the sadness we hold inside. She's the ripple in the water, the mound of earth beneath our feet, the inaudible heartbeat, the last sigh of breath. And so it begins, the beginning of the end.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Read Me! Ignore Me!
OK - so I accidentally posted my 10th Daughter of Memory AND TT blog, unedited and hurriedly because I'm in "brain malfunction" mode. I also was horrid and did not comment on anyone else's TT on the Limo theme and feel terrible about it. Some of you may get double comments this upcoming Thursday because I'm about to be inundated with free time!
Anyhow, ignore my previous post. It shall be edited and expounded upon (I hope) and posted, in its full glory on Thursday.
Meanwhile, if you're a follower or a TT participant, check out another muse blog, The Tenth Daughter of Memory, henceforth referred to as 10DoM.
http://thetenthdaughterofmemory.blogspot.com/
Happy musings.
Anyhow, ignore my previous post. It shall be edited and expounded upon (I hope) and posted, in its full glory on Thursday.
Meanwhile, if you're a follower or a TT participant, check out another muse blog, The Tenth Daughter of Memory, henceforth referred to as 10DoM.
http://thetenthdaughterofmemory.blogspot.com/
Happy musings.
Monday, August 31, 2009
And So It Begins...
It begins with me being me. My brain has fully malfunctioned and I am truly beyond repair. My heart is torn between the sheets and my dreams are becoming nightmares. There is prose in the poetry of my mind, but it isn't setting itself upright. It is falling by the wayside, and it is wishing it were nothing more than a simple smile that says "hello" on a rainy, dreary day like today.
There are mysteries that unravel themselves, tied to my bedposts, wishing they were not the knots of time and time's circumstance. Waiting patiently for the end, I caress the sides of his face, look into his faraway eyes, and see that he doesn't wish to see me but how I stay in his sight anyhow.
Some may think it's unhealthy, unwise; I choose to think it's simply unfortunate. Time, as we all know, is a cruel and unusual thing. It is fought to the finish with breath, heartbeats, and tongue lashings. We all think we can change time, but time can only change us. That's the beauty of it. How she simply continues on without care, and how we cannot help ourselves as we dream of the many ways we desire her change.
And so it begins... The beginning of something beautiful; the beginning of the end.
There are mysteries that unravel themselves, tied to my bedposts, wishing they were not the knots of time and time's circumstance. Waiting patiently for the end, I caress the sides of his face, look into his faraway eyes, and see that he doesn't wish to see me but how I stay in his sight anyhow.
Some may think it's unhealthy, unwise; I choose to think it's simply unfortunate. Time, as we all know, is a cruel and unusual thing. It is fought to the finish with breath, heartbeats, and tongue lashings. We all think we can change time, but time can only change us. That's the beauty of it. How she simply continues on without care, and how we cannot help ourselves as we dream of the many ways we desire her change.
And so it begins... The beginning of something beautiful; the beginning of the end.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Fairytale Ending - TT Limo
It slithered like black mercury around the corner, inching its way toward the empty space in front. Marked with stones and slate and freshly dying orchids, the space would remain lifeless until the serpent came to rest. The beast is unassuming, but within the cavern is much to be discovered. Blood red plush velvet interior waits patiently to embrace those who enter. Crystal goblets glowing with champagne long to be lifted to lovers' lips.
A swarm of bright smiles, sparkling from the sun crying down, begin filling the space before the obsidian creature. Glassed, happy eyes fail to notice clothed fingers stealthily reaching around the handle to lift and open the gateway, and the ebony shadow quietly ensures that all is perfect so his existence as the keeper of the dark serpent is unnoticed. Idle chatter is drowned by laughter and anticipation as all eyes are poised, directly or peripherally, on the old wooden and iron doors.
Ivory tulle, satin, and lace emerge, accessorized by the hapless man, like a cloud floating through the beaming eyes and iridescent bubbles. Hope has mastered the high tide today, and the happy couple shift seamlessly from grey concrete to scarlet velvet. The chauffeur quietly shuts the door. On his way to the helm, he keeps one hand on the shiny onyx facade.
Once inside, he separates himself from the elation flowing from behind. Expressionless, he begins the journey he now knows is just the beginning of the fairytale ending.
A swarm of bright smiles, sparkling from the sun crying down, begin filling the space before the obsidian creature. Glassed, happy eyes fail to notice clothed fingers stealthily reaching around the handle to lift and open the gateway, and the ebony shadow quietly ensures that all is perfect so his existence as the keeper of the dark serpent is unnoticed. Idle chatter is drowned by laughter and anticipation as all eyes are poised, directly or peripherally, on the old wooden and iron doors.
Ivory tulle, satin, and lace emerge, accessorized by the hapless man, like a cloud floating through the beaming eyes and iridescent bubbles. Hope has mastered the high tide today, and the happy couple shift seamlessly from grey concrete to scarlet velvet. The chauffeur quietly shuts the door. On his way to the helm, he keeps one hand on the shiny onyx facade.
Once inside, he separates himself from the elation flowing from behind. Expressionless, he begins the journey he now knows is just the beginning of the fairytale ending.
Friday, August 21, 2009
JeffScape's* Shear Insanity
He won't post, and he's going to be pissed at me for doing this, but for those of you who want to see, here are the before, during, and after pics of JeffScape's* Shear Insanity coming to fruition!
This is the "before" pic. JeffScape* was not being cooperative in the picture taking process. Feigned shyness. Some have called this look "gorgeous." I think they need an immediate visit to their optician.
He had enough freakishly thick hair for TWO massive ponytail donations!
The cut!
What are those creatures???
The style! Doesn't he look so cute with the clippies in?
The final look. Dare I say he looks hot? Well, almost. ;)*edited to add his blog name since he linked over here himself.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Strange Joy: TT Shadow
She ran her fingers gently across the spines, squinting to read the titles in the dim dancing light, though she already knew them by heart. She enjoyed seeing the gilded letters shine in strange tempos by the flickering candles. As she tickled the paper covers of her collection, she was aware that her obsession with order was some sort of coping mechanism--an attempt to bring stability into her otherwise chaotic life.
She found the book she didn't even know she'd been looking for and slid her index finger lovingly up its spine. Her fingertip curled around the top edge of the cover to remove the title from the shelf, hesitating as a tinge of sorrow furrowed her brow. The facial twitch was quick and barely noticeable, but the hollowness forming in her stomach was more prominent as she thought of the empty space she was about to create.
Carefully removing the book from its dusty home, her excitement grew in anticipation of embarking on her favorite way to escape the misadventure of her life. She noticed how the candlelight created a new kind of darkness to fill the empty space. The deception placated her enough that a smirk briefly appeared on her face, eyebrows raised and eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. It seemed strange to her that such a thing was enough to cover the hole left by her escapist desires, but there is joy when dancing shadows fill our darkest sadness.
She found the book she didn't even know she'd been looking for and slid her index finger lovingly up its spine. Her fingertip curled around the top edge of the cover to remove the title from the shelf, hesitating as a tinge of sorrow furrowed her brow. The facial twitch was quick and barely noticeable, but the hollowness forming in her stomach was more prominent as she thought of the empty space she was about to create.
Carefully removing the book from its dusty home, her excitement grew in anticipation of embarking on her favorite way to escape the misadventure of her life. She noticed how the candlelight created a new kind of darkness to fill the empty space. The deception placated her enough that a smirk briefly appeared on her face, eyebrows raised and eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. It seemed strange to her that such a thing was enough to cover the hole left by her escapist desires, but there is joy when dancing shadows fill our darkest sadness.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Almost
It was a beautiful day. The sun shone through gently scattered clouds, the ocean breeze blew against my skin, cooling me just enough so that the temperature felt perfect, and the sand beneath where I laid on my favorite towel contoured perfectly around my body. Children were laughing and splashing in the ocean, chasing the waves and being chased by them. It was an almost perfect scene.
Almost perfect isn't perfect though, and I can't help but dwell on the imperfections of that day and be saddened by the impossibility of fairy tales. Never again will my family be intact, enjoying a lovely day at the beach in the blissful happiness I'd always imagined. Though, if I'm honest with myself, we never really have - at least not until we separated.
There is a such a profound sadness in knowing that the only reason my husband and I were ever able to have the kind of wonderful vacation we should have been having for the past nine years is because I left him... Well, almost. I haven't fully left yet, but we are separate.
Almost. It's a terrible word. It's a word that lets you know that you've fallen short. But it's the closest I'll ever come to happy.
Almost perfect isn't perfect though, and I can't help but dwell on the imperfections of that day and be saddened by the impossibility of fairy tales. Never again will my family be intact, enjoying a lovely day at the beach in the blissful happiness I'd always imagined. Though, if I'm honest with myself, we never really have - at least not until we separated.
There is a such a profound sadness in knowing that the only reason my husband and I were ever able to have the kind of wonderful vacation we should have been having for the past nine years is because I left him... Well, almost. I haven't fully left yet, but we are separate.
Almost. It's a terrible word. It's a word that lets you know that you've fallen short. But it's the closest I'll ever come to happy.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Time is Worth
The world is not fair. It is a harsh and cruel place full of sadness, loneliness, and hate. The earth today is barren and war-torn. At every corner, every juncture, there is a broken heart writhing in a pain so unimaginable, it seems that killing its owner would be the only merciful thing to do. This is my world. Full of realizations meant to bring strength while being decimated by my confused inner demons fighting amongst themselves. Always at odds, the emotional and logical thought processes are constantly pulling and pushing, fighting and tearing, ripping and desecrating one against the other.
Never the victim. I've always thought of myself as stronger than so many others. And I am. But I have recently discovered a dirty, corroded hole in my so often used armor. It has been found and infiltrated by the very person it was built most strongly against. Only because he owns the gift is he able to see the blood-rusted gape, and only because he holds my heart is he able to know exactly where and how to twist the knife.
It hurts. To my core, the physical pain pales in comparison to the searing ache of the broken heart. Deep within my chest, it still beats, but it pounds painfully to keep me awake when I need sleep, quickly when I need to be calm, to slow when I need to move, and in its own unique and unpredictable pattern when I need a self-created sense of stability the most.
Is it worth it? Is it worth the upheaval of the known, the torture of the unknown, and the uncertainty I've always run away from? Only time will tell.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sunset, Wine, and Chocolate
It's been a tumultuous year. It was a year ago that my bubble burst. It had a sound, like one of those cartoon bubbles that bursts above the head of a deflated character. That's the moment I knew that I was broken and out of love and couldn't continue on the pretend fairy tale path I'd imagined for myself.
Floating through the next few months, I remember the never ending feeling of dread every time I thought of the endless number of directions my life could go if I made the decision I knew I had to make. That's the rub. Choose certain misery or choose a mere chance for happiness, whatever happiness is. I haven't figured that much out yet and am not sure I'm cut out for it anyhow.
So, here I sit writing my very first real blog. Drinking Barefoot Merlot straight from the bottle and eating my favorite chocolates after walking on a nearly deserted beach at sunset. I'm waiting on the next move. Waiting to become a better person and fighting with myself about the journey I should be taking and the one I actually am.
I'm living with a man who abused me for years and vacillates. with whiplash speed, between being contrite and still in love with me and thinking of new ways to hurt me; finagling (it's the fab new word for fucking) and wanting more than I should from an extremely hot younger guy who is in love with another woman and certainly doesn't need nor want my drama in his life anyhow. Waiting patiently for my best friend to berate me every time I call him with my newest stupid decision that I already know is stupid before he reminds me repeatedly.
All of them are hurting me for my own good. They've all said it in some form or another. That's my favorite part of my relationships. It's actually become a masochistic point of pride. That I'm so comfortable to people that they don't even notice me is almost wonderful. I wonder, though, when someone will actually appreciate me before the part of me devoted to him has been broken to a billion unrepairable pieces. More importantly, would I even know what to do with that? Melodramatic? Maybe. But isn't life?
Floating through the next few months, I remember the never ending feeling of dread every time I thought of the endless number of directions my life could go if I made the decision I knew I had to make. That's the rub. Choose certain misery or choose a mere chance for happiness, whatever happiness is. I haven't figured that much out yet and am not sure I'm cut out for it anyhow.
So, here I sit writing my very first real blog. Drinking Barefoot Merlot straight from the bottle and eating my favorite chocolates after walking on a nearly deserted beach at sunset. I'm waiting on the next move. Waiting to become a better person and fighting with myself about the journey I should be taking and the one I actually am.
I'm living with a man who abused me for years and vacillates. with whiplash speed, between being contrite and still in love with me and thinking of new ways to hurt me; finagling (it's the fab new word for fucking) and wanting more than I should from an extremely hot younger guy who is in love with another woman and certainly doesn't need nor want my drama in his life anyhow. Waiting patiently for my best friend to berate me every time I call him with my newest stupid decision that I already know is stupid before he reminds me repeatedly.
All of them are hurting me for my own good. They've all said it in some form or another. That's my favorite part of my relationships. It's actually become a masochistic point of pride. That I'm so comfortable to people that they don't even notice me is almost wonderful. I wonder, though, when someone will actually appreciate me before the part of me devoted to him has been broken to a billion unrepairable pieces. More importantly, would I even know what to do with that? Melodramatic? Maybe. But isn't life?
Adventures In My Midlife
At the beckoning of others... Well, only one other... I'm going to step gently into the world of blogging. I might simply skim the tip of a toe across the water, starting ripples not quite strong enough to make a difference, or I may dive in headfirst and still not make a difference.
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