La neige veuillez partir...

Cold weather returning, I think it prudent to speak of commonplace things. I hate snow. All its beauty is lost on me the moment I step into it. The chill claiming my toes, then face, then… lame-o. My car is in need of desperate repair, it is until further notice completely inoperable. I am as thrilled as I am put out. When the snow clears I will look forward to walking, that is for sure. I want the sun to warm me, I want to ride my bike, I want to leave this place. Merci.

Everything seems to come back to nesting…

After Chan- I was nestless, not completely but in the way an avian traveler would be seasonally displaced. Only I had materials, all the doubts- then built and growing. I harbored them in another, but what can one expect with a cradle of sour thistles? Like the therapist that dumped me, I was in a cycle. This sad home, with regrets for my nutrition and distraction for my conditioning. I never moved on here, although I learned little things about myself. I made additions, I renovated but the sad parts lingered like spoiled spots. I decided when you posted the blog, {intentionally titled, callous and telling of everything you thought of me I already knew} it was time to renest. Everything different that you thought in bad interest, everything similar you couldn’t see for yourself, eventually I knew why I planted so many bitter seeds. I can only pray that you have the decency and strength of character to keep all the ramblings of my weakest year to date, to yourself. That my privacy may remain intact, if it does not than I will be forced to believe that my guardedness and pessimism are warranted, by all means true.

Actions speak louder than words- but words are also helpful for deciphering intention…

I know enough to know that your own hypocrisy escapes you. I hope that you are not here. I hope that I won’t have to change my blog host, or however else one can say in eighteen words that they want something out. Perhaps this new arrangement will better suit a person prone to taking small pieces to make out of scale pictures. Mercy, it teaches me to hope that we can be easier on each other and ourselves. If I have learned nothing than to remember not all doors are meant to be opened then I have learned nothing from this.

I am so in love with everything about you.

It wasn’t until you had rounded the corner that you realized you had seen me. It was a little after 12 on a weekday. I had slept in and was going to class for the last few hours. Sleep still steadily clinging to my consciousness, I thought- coffee. The bus ports next to a little place called blues bros, I usually call in the morning time for my 12oz double soy latte with a single sugar in the raw. I remember the swinging glass plate of the door opening with ease and my senses formally at their leisure, coming to rigid attention. Time froze, every aesthetic detail flowed through the portals of my perception. Then sound, then scent. You in your tan blazer on your blue phone with your backpack, my heart stops- swelling and stalling like a car in rushed traffic, so terribly inconvenient. I look into your glasses, I imagine the shock overtaking my face through your eyes. I feel helpless, I feel you slipping farther away. This is how every story ends for me now, I live in dread of what you have taught me, what I in return have imposed upon myself. This is why my therapist dumped me, I still can’t find cause for solution. The sound filling the absence my heart beat, heavy like water is Postal Service, I burned her this cd. The first time she heard this was through me, I wish that this was something I could experience- ever again. I feel my eyebrows downturn, I feel my face take on disappointment, you use the same soap- you pass by me. It has been no less than 10 seconds, no more than 20. But you didn’t realize it was me until you were around the corner, thinking, “she dyed her hair red.”

Sunday afternoon turns to Monday morning...

I spend the bulk of my time attending to mindful creations, playing out story lines for the patrons of my mind. Although it appears I am reading a paragraph terribly slowly, in actuality I have taken a break from that particular passage to engage with the character personally. This afternoon I traverse over two hundred years to consol Mr. Darcy on the green meadows of Netherfield, after coming upon Miss. Elizabeth Bennett, her sisters and that dreadful Wickham fellow. I try desperately to hold true to the standards of the time but feel myself closing the space between us. A flash of shock violently coats his eyes, I don’t want words now. The intimacy of his jaw in the hallow of my hand. The way a mans face is never as soft as my own, never troubled to even their skin tones, how their faces are as free as their bodies- I quake with envy.

Then thinking of new homes, the soft whimpers of my sexual revelry under doorways and through keyholes. The first month literally defined by cardboard and restlessness. The apartment we had several years ago with screaming pipes, our current residence with the irritatingly inquisitive neighbor and inconsistent water temperature. So many places I have lived within, if they had consciousness would they miss me as I miss them? I recall these places by their architecture, the nooks and crannies that I acquainted with the pads of fingers on initial viewing. The smiling realtors, aged men, students, all the same expression. Gentle prayers loft upward on the strange breeze of my apprehensions to the patron saints of ‘moving without misfortune‘, ahem- amen.