Having your shit together isn't all that it's cracked up to be.
- Me, after a week of actually having my shit together.
When I was little, like in the earliest of memories; I recall being outside hanging out with my Papa and asking him why he did what he did with his life. He told me that I should find what makes me happy and let it be who I am until I die.
I don't know how not to be who I am. I am kind and smart and funny and I try my hardest to make everyone in my life happy. I see absolutely no point in being something other than exactly who you are. I have always refused to water myself down for anyone. I don't let people get close to me if I don't feel that the value we have in each other's lives is mutual. Most of the time I get bitten square in the ass for it.
I think that's the ploy all along with some people:
"I'll find you when it's clear that you're not looking. I'll make you love me when you were busy convincing yourself and the Universe that you were unable to feel anything ever again with a calming touch and beautiful words. I'll look at you like the most magical creature I've ever seen. And then I'll flee the scene skipping before you realize what even happened with just barely enough time to wash your blood from my hands after squeezing your cold, dead heart until it was merely an afterthought to me."
The time we spend together leaves me feeling like we're flying around each other like lightning bugs on a perfect summer evening but we're both too stubborn to land first.
I had somehow become married to my loneliness and that's where you found me. I tried to fight you out of my mind but I can't help but keep writing my admiration of you. Writing it out feels like the best and the worst moment all at the same time. I talk about it with friends who look at me like I've morphed into some punch drunk love teenager. I highly doubt that this is what I'm acting like, but I definitely felt something other-worldly the second your lips touched mine. I recognize this feeling, not because I've experienced it in this lifetime; but because it's visited me in dreams like a vision of something I knew that I had experienced before. I read once that feelings you experience in dreams are actually memories from a past life; that meeting someone and having that same feeling means that your atoms met somewhere long before we were in our bodies that we have today.
Maybe that's just my well-hidden hopeless romantic talking that secretly loves the movie Titanic and couldn't make it 1/3 of the way through The Notebook before I was crying and fighting the urge to throw things across the living room (I still haven't been able to make it more than half way through before I have to shut it off and then I'm a raging bitch for days - insert rant about how tired I am of looking at everyone else on the planet getting what I want more than anything). I won't even get started on The Great Gatsby.
I can proclaim a masterpiece for you in this blog of mine repeatedly, but my vocal chords turn to concrete at the sight of your face; keeping me from saying what I need to in order to voice my need for this to be mutual. Instead, it's easier on my heart to dismiss any nice things that you say to me and accuse you of sleeping with half the planet and push you away with the dismissal that you're just screwing with me because you enjoy killing me slowly like some narcissistic serial killer of hearts instead of accepting what you're telling me to be true.
Constantly questioning the Universe: "Is this an ocean or a puddle?" My ability to tell has been skewed by muddled signs of self preservation and punch drunk curiosity. I run a constant race with my emotions and it's usually ego that falls flat on it's face first with inner peace coming in dead last. It just sits in the middle of the track waiting to be kissed, checking out the dandelions.
I wish you were real with me. Instead you walk this earth chasing every right you could have had in every wrong creature with your hand of stacked cards and gilded smile; taking a large chunk of their being for yourself to keep in your menagerie so that no matter how hard they try, nobody will ever make them feel complete again after you've left. You might look for my kindness and my words and my touch everywhere; but will never find it again, even from me. There is no anger this time. This exile of yours wasn't my decision. You made me embrace the fall in your canyon and I jumped; not realizing it was a volcano. It was beautiful and freeing and defiant and everything I could have hoped it would be. I'm only sorry that you can't bring yourself to jump with me. I can see miles down our road from where I am.
Converse with me, but don't look at me. Your eyes cause a molecular change in my spirit and my mind becomes amputated from my mouth and my heart is at the control panel and that's not a good thing if we want to avoid burning to ash. My tongue doesn't follow direction well. The way I feel about you has become so ingrained in me that I would set myself on fire if you asked for light. But your words are hitting my ears as faint as a coin you've flipped into a well of abandonment and echoing just as hollow. Words, that's all you give me. I'm tired of waiting for you, patiently watching you gambling copper in hopes of promises of gold. It's infuriating.
I've grown accustomed to goodbyes without ever speaking the words "It's over". I keep waiting for your grand deployment from my life; praying with every atom of my being that it never comes. I could watch you watching the news on the couch and not hear a thing but find a million things about you that I can't get enough of.
There's nothing that can ever keep me from you.
Except you.
No comments:
Post a Comment