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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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.
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