...<(3...

I can't stop thinking about you...

I write it here because I can't say it to you.

There it is. Simply devastating...

I can't stop thinking about you.

My Original Goodbye

Saying goodbye… It’s such a complex thing. So many goodbyes are because someone did wrong. Goodbye to the one who did the wrong or because you were that someone. Goodbye because you love someone too much. Goodbye because you can’t find it in you to love someone enough. Goodbye because someone left this world in one of so many possible ways. Goodbye because you can’t seem to remember why they were there in the first place. Goodbye because you can’t be what or who someone needs you to be.

Today though – I had one of the hardest goodbyes. A goodbye to someone, for myself, because of the someone he makes me. Goodbye because of the upset and worry and internal strife that are caused by being left in the dark. He was “sorry for leaving me in the dark” and right after that… the lights went out again.

The “dark” is where I find my mind runs the wildest. It’s possible this is so for everyone but the wild of my mind is so much more…so much worse. The dark that my mind runs in tends to find things that aren’t there. Things that have never, could never be there. The dark is where my mind goes to play, to run and thrive on all the poison that lies awaiting a weak and vulnerable visitor. It waits just for my mind. It awaits entrance and laughs haughtily as the rash of the darkness spreads…

Ring around the roses,

thoughts full or poison,

Ashes – she’s burning to ashes,

her mind falls dead.

When this poison takes over, the laughter that rings is only at me for believing. The joyous screeching heard, in condescending tone, comes from the mouths of all the memories that scream aloud that they told me so. I told me so, you told me so, they told me so and because I wasn’t able to hear it, or ignored it when I was, the poison creeps back in, like ivy vines through my veins…laughing…mimicking…told you so.

Told. You. So. It keeps poking and prying until a resentful retreat of the pride that applied for a moments entrance takes place and the ride takes hold. Round and round the told you so ride will go. Round and round until the poison is holding everything up for show. All the trophies of my mind that this poison holds, all labeled with the ever taunting Told. You. So.

This goodbye was…original at least. A situation unreciprocated, a longing gone unfulfilled, led to this goodbye which was in deed…original. What’s hard about this goodbye is that so much lies in the valley of the unknown. He was…lovely. He was…spectacular. He was…something. He was…the light keeper as he was…the one who kept me in the dark. In all the darkness though, he was…original.

So here’s a toast to my very first, Original Goodbye…

Here’s hoping that you find things in life that keep you smiling unfailingly and things that possess enough beauty to make you cry.

Here’s wishing you all the best going back to art school in January. I know you will succeed because you won’t stop until you do.

This is me, desiring for you to move on in life as a continued possessor of an endless desire I can some day see strewn passionately across a canvas.

Here’s to you, my Original Goodbye, wishing you nothing but an eternal longing for what you truly believe is the reason for your existence.

I wish I could have seen what the sunlight did to your eyes and what the moonlight did to your voice. I wish I could have seen, if only for a moment, what your arms looked like wrapped around my lungs. What your words looked like prying into my heart and what your laughter felt like filling my sadness. I would have loved to have known you more because I feel like you could have made me a new kind of …original.

Here’s to you, and what will never be. Our originality could have been beautiful, I think. And I think… I’m going to miss you.

The sweetest of dreams, you beautiful creature, for the darkness you bring is at rest.

Broken Brain...

What do you do with days that trips fall back together, his words come back – for a moment any how, someone tells you kind things about who they think you are. Why is it that when someone tells me how pretty they think I am, I feel saddened that I am not beautiful. When someone tells me what a good person I am, I feel like I have only failed to be great. When someone tells me what a wonderful friend I am, I feel like I must not be doing something right if they just thought this, just now – what were they thinking before? When someone tells me how funny I am, I wonder what it is they think is funny and are they laughing at me, instead of with me. How, and more importantly, why does my mind do this… Why does it find the things that others aren’t telling me, because my mind just knows that’s what they must be thinking. What kind of broken brain finds a way to flush out the words that were spoken, without request, to find thoughts that weren’t presented.

I find it exhausting and I hate it. And some how I don’t hate it for me. I hate it because I fear my brain will cause exhaustion in others and I will feel guilty for just… being. It’s hard, much harder than I choose to admit. It should make me feel sad but some how, in this broken brain, it makes me feel…nothing.

Some randoms that are spinning:

When I poor candy out of the bag, I color coordinate. I don’t have to eat only the same colors at the same time, but they have to go in at the same time, having come from separate piles. WTF is that about?!

I can’t wait to move to Chicago. I’m moving there after the first of the year…

I can’t wait to move, because I hate this place I work and sleep in. I don’t live here because I am shut off to making too much of a life here, for fear I will never be able to get away. I can’t wait to move and somehow that has made me see all new potential in the life I am not living here… WTF is that about?!

(As I eat a green M&M and a red M&M…from their individual piles that lay on my desk)

I love basketball. I love watching basketball. I love talking about basketball. I love reading about basketball. I love everything about the greatest game ever invented. I hate, I repeat, HATE watching basketball with other people. I love to hear other people talk about basketball but hate hearing nothing but statistics and money and trades and rumors… I like hearing people talk about the beauty that basketball can bring to lives of people who simply watch it from home. I love being around people (to an extent) and hate watching basketball with them. WTF is that about?!

I tried my new coffee creamer today. It’s vanilla latte. I bought it because I LOVE vanilla lattes more than I love children (thank god I don’t have any or that would be inappropriate) and because I am a child. They made the package pretty, and sheik looking so I had to buy it. They put things in pretty packages because people like me buy it. I don’t care WTF that’s about. It makes me happy.

I love snow. I can’t wait to live in a place where snow is guaranteed all the time. I am 26 years old and for every year that I can remember, all I wanted was a white Christmas. The people that I talk to that live with white Christmas’ constantly tell me how much I am going to hate the snow. I don’t care WTF that’s about because I know the day I hate snow is the day something else, more magical, has to happen in my life and that’s exciting.

Ramblings, just ramblings, I can’t seem to quiet my mind.

Some days I feel my constant thoughts will deteriorate my spine.

The smiles and laughter filling the air make me feel alive.

The sadness filling my rambling thoughts turn my alive to tired.

     

The madness that runs throughout my veins makes me who I am.

The love beating the walls of my heart helps me understand.

Many things in life I can’t explain, I try but never prevail.

The darkened lovely things inside my mind are what set words a sail.

Vanishing words...

I met someone. Someone who it seems, may have already disappeared. How does that work exactly… thinking of someone frequently, what seems like always, when your skin hasn’t touched one another’s and your eyes having never met. How are your mind, and consequently your day, filled with thoughts of this…phantom. I don’t know him. He could be a figment of my imagination - I can’t prove he exists. Is he gone so soon?

What a beautiful creature he seems to be. Dark but inspired by light. Broken and inspired by likeness. Lovely and still intrigued by things, or someone, that doesn’t have lovely to offer. His heart, making me want to know of everything that has hurt it. That smile that has captured me, making me want to know all the things that make his mouth make this move towards the top of his face, that pushes his cheeks just so, for the waves to roll over what seems like perfection. These stories, told so poetically, making me want to keep track of everything he may forget. That sincerity that seems…real. That realness being what awakened something inside of me that I begged to be always asleep. And now… it seems he may be gone, more quickly than he appeared. My insides weep for someone that they don’t know. This must compel a new definition for insane. Aching for something that was never yours. Missing something that you never knew. Thinking of someone who is not thinking of you. Feeling let down by someone who never promised to hold you up. Insanity in deed, and yet, somehow… Here I am. Writing of this phantom that sparked something in me and made me want to believe. Such a short time, it took for him to sneak in and steal away so many months, years, agonizing moments of learning how to believe in not believing. He came in and now it seems may very well have just been a ghost. Someone who moved me because of what I wanted to believe not because of what he was actually able to touch – nothing. What if this soul is never to be heard from again and it was all just a trick of fate. Something that seemed it could be…something, but some how again, in this life of mine, “something” only to me.

While what was excitement in my chest, relocates to fear in my stomach I realize that this one, he made an impression. Not something fun. Not something busy. Not something complimentary or fresh. An impression based on things I didn’t know I could find, much less recognize so quickly, so intensely, in another. This impression is built of knowledge and intrigue and desire and lust of the soul, of the mind. There is nothing physical but the feelings that run through my limbs when I learn of his words, and the feeling of despair that seems to be draining my veins now that his words may be gone. If they aren’t gone, where did they go for what seems like an eternity? Why did they disappear so suddenly when my words are still aching to be released for him to learn? Where did his words go? Why would he think to keep them from me, or not think about it at all? Wasn’t I of intrigue? Didn’t I make an impression? Weren’t my words thrilling to learn and my stories enough to keep him? What about my bruises, or stories, or soul makes people “get ghost” so quickly?

How can you miss someone you’ve never met? And how can you know that’s not how it’s supposed to go? How can you be so involved with someone’s history without knowing their present? I’m so intrigued and now more so, by the “chase”. This is how it works for me. How it always works for me. I don’t know if he’s gone away but I wonder so wholly, in every moment...



                                 Where did his words go?



Bloody Cage...

       I recently had a hard day. A day full of anxiety and worry. Worry about being invisible to the eyes of the ones who “matter”. Worries about never being someone who’s “beauty” can be found and always just being here. I wish I knew how it started so I could know how to defend myself from, what today seems like, weak attempts at finding a way to have my ego stroked. A pitiful way to secure the thought that I would some day be touched by approving eyes.

       I love to be alone. Alone in my room. Alone at my desk. Alone in my head. Alone in my life. I am never fully alone in my room, or my head for that matter because there are other people filling what I am thinking of while in there. Friends, lovers, parents, siblings, bosses, co-workers, and on and on and on. I am never alone at my desk because each time I sink into a thought process that could help me escape the mundane that I sadly call my existence, the phone rings or some idiot with too much fucking cologne on comes in to fill out an application with out a goddamn pen. I asked my boss if I could start a new routine for ignorant ass applicants. When requesting a pen, politely offer them a push pin. Explain ever so kindly that I assume they had planned on using their blood to fill it out, and that's why they didn't bring a pen, and that we at, (my job that will go unnamed), are always here to help with peoples dreams.

I will now make an attempt to return to my calmer state of mind and write what I needed to say without reading back over this in a year and realizing how stupid it was to have stayed at said job for so long.

I am alone in life, as there is no one here to never let me down. I’m alone in my dreams because I find it hard to share them with others. A good friend of mine told me to read his blog today. I read it once and felt hurt after I made that mistake. I didn’t want to know something about someone that I loved that way. I want people that love me to talk with me about their lives. I guess it’s selfish to be hurt that someone didn’t want to talk to me. I don’t really know why it effects me that way or how to stop it from doing so. I guess to just keep my distance. The problem is, is that I do that – keep my distance. He snuck in. So since I found out some information that I thought was rather personal when I read his blog the once, I hadn’t read it since. Just seemed to make more sense to me to keep from getting my feelings hurt. He spoke of a line in one of his favorite poems that he thought I would like. It is a line about dreams and having people tread softly because they are on them. I realized I don’t invest my dreams in anyone. I have learned that this will only lead to things, that were understood to be sacred, falling in to crushed rubble at my feet, and my feet alone. It always turns out that the few people I let in, eventually want out. It’s inevitable I guess, seeing as I don’t want to be in here some days. It was a blinding experience though, realizing how sheltered I keep the heart that lives on my sleeve. I wish I was an artist, once again…

I have this beautiful image of a young woman with deeply saddened eyes but an upright mouth standing all alone in the dark. Nothing around her but a space that obviously lacks light. Not just dark. A space that is supposed to have light that just can’t seem to find it’s way in. On her right shoulder which is sitting higher than her left is a cage. A cage that would have held an indoor, singing, bird in the early 1900’s. On her floor length black dress, lays a long, red, satin ribbon that touches the floor on the side. The cage is holding a heart. A bruised heart. The once silver cage stained with what used to be the heart’s ability to bleed. This is what is in my mind and I have no way of laying this on paper in picture form, to get it out…so I write.

My heart is so out of my reach but still so guarded about things that I never really know until someone accidentally brings it to my attention. How is this so?

I try my best to sit in the corner of my life giving no option for someone to sneak up behind me to hurt me or to heal me. I just need to be. Just – be. It’s harder than it seems. I am constantly caught off guard, and how this happens with all thousand of my guards up at what feels like all times -I don't know, but I am constantly attacked and knocked down. Whether it be with disappointment or love, I am always under attack. I’ll never be beautiful. I’ll never be spectacular. I’ll never be an artist, or a dancer, or a millionaire. I’ll always just be me. Most days, Me, is something that I am proud of. Never over the top, but never hiding in the shadows from who I am either. On hard days, days like the recent day, I fall. I fall down and I fall deep. It feels like it will never end and then the sun rises and it’s a little better than it was before. Nothing happens, just a new day and it’s easier to breathe… how is this so?