Brokenness & The World's Most Beautiful Disaster

 My most vivid memories of elementary school involve drama. Not the negative drama where you could get hurt, no--the drama that is acting and creative movement, a captivating idea brought to my knowledge through a teacher by the name of (blank). Ms. (blank)'s way of teaching inspired me to gravitate to dramatic people. My first crush was named Eric, everyone enjoyed him because he was funny, outspoken, and at times, rebellious--a character. I did not want flat, I was attracted to people with grandiose gestures and immense passion. I wasn't aware of it at the time I locked eyes with him, but Zach's passion and movement made me unconsciously want him. Now I tend to wonder, is part of getting what you want...convincing yourself you never can? If you're telling yourself you can't have something and time passes by and you actually don't get what you want, wouldn't that really mean you're getting what you want because what you believed came true?

The happiest clown still cries when the makeup disappears, the most successful comedians see themselves as the world's best joke, and this is the way the world turns. Musicians and artists: extremely happy or extremely sad, no in-between. His face crunches into an expression of disgust with the topic of discussion and I watch as his skin wrinkles and stretches back and wish I could erase the lines. Even when he is well-rested his eyes look tired and worn, like they've seen more than they should and as if tears just don't come out from them anymore. His hair has grown longer due to the lack of time for a haircut and his face sometimes seems so sunken in as though he's been starved of stability. I feel the chill of his new basement room and while on his bed I tell him I'm cold. He asks, "do you mean that emotionally or physically?" and this comment would only make sense to someone if they knew the context. He wrapped his body around me and I instantly felt his warmth. For the past few weeks before that point, our intimacy had been difficult with all of the negativity surrounding his daily life. Zach was having difficulty with what used to be an incredible kitchen job at a decent restaurant. The difficulty came with, essentially, the McDonaldization of the restaurant which meant more pressure and less passion. He'd decided he could not work in the environment any longer and while problems arose with matters of work and matters of our relationship, the fatal state of his grandmother added the imminence of grief to his shoulders. With hope and determination, Zach scored a job wearing chef's whites working at Swan, a finer restaurant than the previous. He had been tossed around and the pit in my chest grew with the inner conflict I faced between being selfish and arguing with the hope for it to become resolved which in reality became endless. It only left me feeling worse for keeping him awake late enough to leave him with the minimum time left to sleep which would surely affect his performance at work in the morning.

I went into the bathroom, holding back tears of anger and wanting to remove the tangles from his stomach and lower back. I wished I could say something that would cure him of this continuous ache. It was a mental trigger of an ache that I'm sure no one else could understand completely. He wanted to be alone and I held back offence and instead felt helplessness. I felt guilt for having caused it but how I felt did not matter because his feelings meant more to me; that is why we left to get me home. My guilt and need to be alleviated of such feelings shows, as I realized it to be, self-centered behavior when I came to the conclusion that to act selflessly was to be silent and go home.
The pain in his face and weakness made me upset and furious not being able to fix it, but still I stayed silent and let him take me home.

Pretend you're okay with it as long as I'm Happy, World!

His body is a flawless figure, the perfect specimen of man. His skin soft and stature lean but not quite muscular. He reminds me of a wolf; the scruffy lone wolves that roam around with their deep eyes and neverending gaze. In the first few weeks of being with him, that gaze would provoke a nervousness inside me; the kind that made me question my judgment. Now, his staring eyes are warm and full of wonder--there's a matter-of-fact sureness in those eyes.
I'd dreamt he and I were coming close to confronting my parents of our "plan to finally date each other" despite what obstacles they might think would come with the age gap. He was sure as he was in real life, but then, in a short instant, everything changed. He told me to forget about the whole thing, as if he didn't want to deal with the drama of it all. In a fit of rage and upset I literally ran and told my parents with the idea that if I just got it over with that maybe he wouldn't leave. I'm haunted by that small fear that the person I truly love will disappear.

We make love and bask in the delicate high of the chemicals stewing due to eachother's efforts. Is there anything more relaxing and naturally enjoyable to induce/experience with another being?
It's a mistake and almost an expectation to wish to be tangled with him all the nights of my life because I am refusing believe in a forever. But it makes me feel safe and secure knowing I can here and now. Safe and secure to know it is possible. I'm not under his spell or "brainwashing", I've made my own sick bed and I'll lie in it. The irony in the use of the word "lie."

Pipe Dream or Reality

Sleep deprived but satisfied and seemingly redeemed, he gazed at me and a smile grew. His eyelids struggled to stay open but he spoke to me with an eagerness and enthusiasm that I cherish like the world. That is why it was so easy to fall in love with him; that enthusiasm, his genuinity. I could listen to him speak all day, never getting a word in, I like his use of words far better--that's not to say that I don't believe I have anything significant to contribute. I suppose it's a new step: appreciating another person's time and openness to the extent of being content with just listening. Sure, I'd like to ask him silly, unrelated questions so to fill in the blanks: what is his favourite song? favourite colour? Favourite book? Favourite memory? I wanted to know more and more, and he's giving more than he shares with 95% of the people he's ever spoken to. I wanted him to tell me what his favourite beauty mark is out of all of the flecks on my skin, that I want him to remind me he thinks I'm beautiful now and then, say "I love you" not just when we part but whenever he feels it in his chest. But he has given my kisses on my forehead, my cheek, sometimes discretely at the back of my head so delicately I feel like I'm porcelain. I'm breakable so he never lets me fall too far, when he has...we've mended together. I long for a time when I will be able to see him more than once a week, that my family can see the source of half of my happiness and recognize the goodness in us being together. I want to lay with him and watch movies together at night, cuddled close together. I want to hear him laugh and be there for him when he's upset and deal with any shit that comes our way. I believe I can handle it, I won't be afraid of what people say and I'll give him the trust I can find...though that part of me is broken. I want him to take my hand and be proud to stand next to me and introduce me to his friends and family. I will be that girl. I want to be his and him to be mine.

Like trying to find a Light Switch in the Dark

I envy how he's able to analyse so deeply, the root to his sorrow; his expanding existential crisis.

Because it's much smarter and "admirable" than thinking, crying and obsessing over miniscule issues and over-analyzing the emptiness of everyone surrounding me. Yeah, that's what I ridiculously do and it's embarrassing even to myself--I'm embarrassing myself. Deeply, I'm really mostly upset because I lack that modern apathy that, i'm sorry to marginalize, I recognize in most people with divorced parents. Talking to him, being with him is like walking through a dark room--tripping over unknown, miscellaneous objects that bruise and scrape and hurt me--in search of a light switch. Then at the end of the day when no messages are sent and conversation is short and lacking substance, as if I just smashed my knee into an obstacle in the darkness, I tell myself "Careless me! I should be more careful next time, wouldn't want to reveal myself and ruin it all!" I suppose someone who reads this ridiculous, melodramatic entry might think I'm honestly batty. I suppose I am BATTY.

I just don't understand. Is it true that when you grow up, your heart dies?
Or is it apathy just a cowardly white flag when life gets tough?
DEAL WITH IT, FIGHT FOR FEELINGS; NOT AGAINST THEM.                                          
                                                   

                                                                                                             dumb-asses.

Get Over Yourself, Baby

On the eve before her 3rd exam was to commence, she cried in her bed to no avail.
Her goal was to fully dispense her body's percentage of water through her tear ducts, all for no one to see. She wished he was there to witness her tears, to deal with the overwhelming emotion of feeling unimportant. Late replies were always a trigger for her, in the past it had been the most evident sign of a person's lack of interest in her attempt to sustain a conversation. But so, most of her so-called 'friendships' continued this way through the poor medium of "MSN Messenger," a popular way to chat over the internet with the use of an email. She dealt with a lot in those years, lost herself in low self-esteem--or rather never did find herself--until Jordan came along and propped her up on her own two feet and said, "Stop it." It took her quite a long time but eventually she got the hang of it and soon she was capable of doing more than just 'standing' and began to soar. With the finest of feathers, of the most unique colours she flew, a day here and there she wavered and returned to the ground.

All of these experiences and nostalgic emotions run rampant in her mind but he doesn't know what she has endured and how strong her fear of being meaningless truly is and why it is so. All he had to say was "you're important to me," but he didn't say so and though she tried to rationalize that he had not said it because maybe he thought his actions proved it but as the night passed...she ached with the thought, "maybe I'm not important to him." She instantly wished she was a complex composition, just the right stringing of notes to make him weak in the knees. She thought cleverly that maybe then she would be openly admired and acknowledged as important. An hour earlier, she had spiralled into hysterics; to cry or to laugh? She'd rather smoke a cigarette on the roof of her old school and yell till her chords would give out. If her chords gave out there would be no point to her existence, she might as well have never entered his life. So maybe when they meet again it'll all be forgotten, she'll fake a smile and fall into his charming crooked smile like an enchanting curse. She'll leave her frustrations to another late night to soil her pillow with tears and angry diary entries. She'll be stern telling herself to "get over yourself" and find some key ingredient to growing up and inject apathy into her veins as if it were conveniently prescribed. Apathy is not the diagnosis but the cure.

Delicate Mindset of an Insightful Youth

When did I last speak to him?
What did we discuss? And just how many times have you spoken?
Also, why haven't you coaxed a conversation via [insert popular social network]?

These are the annoying and repetitive questions that circle my mind, of course only after having thought of him. What's interesting now though, is in the past when I was 'infatuated' with him the thought of him accompanied a daydreaming sigh or the instant desire to "be his." I look back now and think it disgusting and immature. I almost wish I could quarantine that parasite in my mind. I mean, of course it's normal to have feelings for someone but the fact that I nearly made it obvious...
Destruction.
Anyways, now I feel I've become hostile; the desire to know is demanding. This has always been a general aspect of my personality, wanting to know more, to be right. I hate to admit it but I suppose it has now become an obsession. I'm unsatisfied, feeling too insignificant to be a part of his world. To him, I'm only fifth business. To him i'm an over-dressed, plain-faced and un-insightful girl with a naive heart and impractical ambition. To him I am none of the above because I'm sure I'm not all that famous in his head. To him I'm a 2-dimensional shape, flat and lacking depth. To him I'm a void. To him, I may not be worth while.
However, I know that I am not shallow, I am not 2-dimensional, nor am I plain or un-insightful. I'm not ignorant nor am I intelligent but that's exactly proved by how eager I am to know him.

Taking out the Trash

the warmth in the belly of your soul doesn't seek to suck the sweet nectar from my sore heart, swelling with passion and desire. 

How it was, what we were. Who you are and what you are--the distinction is becoming clear. 

I treat your apathy like a common cold but this is all in vain, 

to sit and wait whilst splitting my cares into two, to donate to you.

It's a beautiful burden to care for you and I calculate the reasons to let up

Cuz you're preoccupied with your objectivity

While I'm craving unity

Cuz I'm an alcoholic and you're my flask

And to you I'm just a simple task.

One day I'll be all-encompassing spontaneity

And you'll be the man who demands careful planning and punctuality

But I will run around town and leave you last on the list

My least important deed, likely to be missed.

For the time I spent being seen as a 'task' I have been reduced to being as insignificant and mundane as doing the laundry or taking out the trash.

I still wish to have a mind with potholes where cares were meant to be.

Thoughts of Unknown Protagonist

I love the remarkable way that his mouth turns up into a strangely adorable smile when I do something very right. I'm literally, "music to his ears." I shouldn't seek out his validation but I must admit that at times I do. I feel I may never impress him...no, I feel I may never hear about how and if I've impressed him. It's strange to think it's always been that way, but will he never wish to impress me? Does he think he already does impress me enough? Well, I've made it known throughout the years. Has he wished to impress me though? The thought makes me feel warm.

I'm impressed with his ambition to pursue a connection with me. Yet, when it's repeatedly brought up and can't help but subject my body to turn numb. I wanted to be comatose. I wanted to perform metamorphosis to show I'm already there, "surprise everyone, I'm not really my age...I'm older." But such thoughts are the very reason why I'm trapped; I overtly try to prove myself. Declaring myself so openly gets exhausting when outsiders disregard it or pass it off as adolescent nonsense. There's no space for me to break away from "adolescent nonsense." Anyways, the thought that was so numbing is the period of waiting...does this mean we'll break apart? How exactly would that happen? Would he still be in love or find another?
If two people love eachother enough...they won't need anyone else, even when they're technically "single."
I'm in it for the long haul.
I get weak thinking that he can so easily let me go.

Just Love Her Loudly

Marie Taylor Marx
smoked her third cigarette in the backyard where there's too much open space and not enough silence.
While she discretely lit it, she reminisced of days of running around from house to house, playing capture the flag and hide and go seek. She remembers that these games never lasted as long as she wished they did. And  remembers laughing at jokes she didn't quite yet understand; she thinks it sad now. The boys had lists and she wanted to be accepted in the circle but age made strict boundaries. Anyways, those lists were all ridiculous rankings of the females the boys of the street had known. Maybe if they spent less time writing down names of pretty girls and instead mustered the courage to speak to them face to face, maybe they would get somewhere.
Marie slid the pack in the pocket of her coat and breathed in and out the unwanted mix of air and smoke.
She brought it to her mouth again and again, contemplating its purpose to her; then, contemplating her purpose too. She laughed thinking of how just the other night, when she was choking through her second, when the lighter didn't work...
"Are you kidding me? You are a lighter, you have one purpose, and one purpose only. That purpose is to produce a flame. Humour me: light up my life."
She was hysterical, Marie is enthusiastic about identifying irony in everyday life and isn't afraid to speak out about it. So, "light up my life" she thought was a good kicker, after all because a cigarette's sole purpose is to shorten lives; the darkening of lungs. She thought of her pretty lungs.
"If they're so pretty, if i'm so pretty than why doesn't he care?"
He is like the lighter. He lights her up, and she's the cigarette, soothing and suave, romantic even and when she's down to the filter in demand...
All that is left is the staleness of the smell of smoke in her hair, in her clothes, in her being.
She is rotten with thoughts that wrack her brain causing hemorrhages; the soreness of hope being crushed.
Wait, but isn't he the cigarette too?
Could she ever really understand his thinking...there's a goal.
Her downfall is her unfailing attraction to handsomely grown beta men who are actually boys who are actually just drones.
And she'll believe this is so until proved wrong.
Will he prove her wrong?
To do so is quite easy...
Just be there. Just show up. Just love her loudly. Just be there.

Apathy

You have no feelings
or you restrain them, internalized, supressed.
Whatever.
But she takes it personally,
is she not worthy of being involved in that part of you?
You say you come far out and exposed
but she still feels she needs you close
Closer to throwing out words more aggressively than your kisses
Let the words--be them natured of anger or passion--roll off your sweet tongue
that you already use so well in silence, silence save the gentle moans of satisfaction
And the soundtrack of supposed "Love"--lip smacking, rustling of skin beneath clothing,
underneath clothing.
So throw those words around aggressively, filling her atmosphere with words
Beautiful words, or pointless words that bear more meaning from being spilt from your lips,
In the full-frame capture of your exotic face and deep eyes.
Sinkhole deep eyes, she fears them. Is it really fear or an insight:
to look into deep eyes and still see emptiness, may result in disppointment.

to be continued...

PLEASE COMMENT

After all these years on this blog...I kind of really wish I would get some feedback on my writing...

Two Cupids Discuss About Serendipity

I don't know exactly how this works.
If they were to break off...and how would they break off? No one knows.
Well, the reason why they break off is an important factor, because if one of them cheated on another--which would be horrible--then the opposite person would be filled with anger towards that person. Maybe he's going on tour for a long period of time and that will be the "beautiful goodbye"

Okay, so suppose the break-off was a neutral one of mutual decision, would they carry on seeing other people while they are still in love with eachother? Would they over that time...fall out of love? And fall in love with other people? The unknown answers can only be revealed in time with however way these events ensue. There is no promise they'll get back together. There is hope though.

Snap

But I feel good when I look good.

Why can't that just be okay?

It doesn't mean I have to be associated with superficial, obsessive teenage girls who take makeup and clothes and general appearance so seriously that they have to make a mask before they let anyone see them. No one gets to see their real faces.
No. I don't do that...I just want to look beautiful to myself most of the time. Sure I spend a lot of time prepping my appearance before leaving the house but that's just hygenic and formal, in my opinion.

So to look good is to feel good, as a result I sound idealistic, materialistic, appearance-obsessed and just plain sad.

This body will soon morph into an elastic-y, tight, firm and lean, slim beach goddess-like bod.
I lied, but it'll come close.