Revealing or reveling…

What ever could be more damaging than opening my heart to an idea, an entity that would soon leave me. If I fell in love with a person, a feeling or a bond- what then could be saved of my heart. An organ beating fierce like a fist, seizing with passion at the mere sight of such a thing. Too large, with pressing urgency- take a breath. Even the discomfort of its sting has all the sweet, unencumbered resonance of a kiss to me.

To hold a child or is it holding me. I am at first set with panic, only through detachment do I concede to this. To personalize would be most damaging. I think, half present- alternative histories yet to unfold. As any of us could be so many things, feel so varied a motion- I stand, carried in the current of my own detachments. The subtleties of their admission, the delicate threads weaving- they join. Entanglements hold me. My ornate desires an art, a craft once used to cheer sorrows hold the tale of a wanton spirit. Acceptance with fond intention is but a prelude to so many things.

Just like heaven...

I am enjoying the silence, wild nights of abandon taking their leave while I reflect more closely on my current circumstances. It has been lonely, temporary breaks from my solitude are welcome distractions benefiting all parties. I find that more often I am driving, here to there with the music loud. It reminds me terribly of high school in some strange way. As though I am allowed to choose my actions without fear of offending or inconveniencing anyone. I read a book when I care to and rarely eat a real meal. I sleep for an hour here, an hour there- I cannot recall the last time I felt so free. I know that this is but an interlude, how ever will I adjust to compromise again? A trip in the near future may provide better insight I believe.

It appears the breeze has taken yet another acquaintance from my past beyond the realms of mortality, to one’s chosen resting place. It is ever so unsettling; young and dangerous- they die. Hard to fathom that we are still within suicides reach post adolescence, when the most confusing of our journey is over. Perhaps a decade of surging hormones and my own suicide attempts have made me a little presumptuous. I still recall the disbelief that harbored in my 21st year. I cried, it had never occurred to me that I would come this far. But I have.

I finished The Time Travelers Wife some time ago, it embodies the only fear that remains once one’s true mate has been found. Every moment true to human nature, I adored it. I drank it in, everything and nothing at all.

Affirmations often come in fitful downpours…

This is why I feel that good days warrant caution, when every pore exudes only “yes” I become sure that the answer is “no”. How quickly soft expressions slip from candid faces, all day I had heard my tiny self saying, “no matter what, today is the good day.” It took a physical assault of the senses to finally assure me otherwise. Details such as time, make the sobbing all the more caustic- making quick work at the foundations of others until you too, can taste its faining sweat.

Newest legion of arctic explorers trail the Northwest Americas…

Headlines for our unimproved weather conditions -or- hey, the snow is awful high. Pedestrian suffering continues, climbing slippery ice mounds where sidewalks once were. I am terribly irritated, what is to be done for the less mobile populous? Brought to tears at the sight of wheelchair bound citizens and woot-ing for the elderly who take great bounds from possible curbs to bus doors. The season of wet pant bottoms and fluctuating fevers, has taken more convictions in its wake today. Snow day as it is properly called, kept me home without a fight, though it appears to have been a premature decision. The puddles grow quick, blinding sun rays shamelessly peering. I long for rain boots and frothed soymilk in large porcelain tea cups. Until next year with my luck, at least I have Belle & Sebastian. xoxo for Tigermilk.

What if I had a confession to make?

What if I told you that our chance meetings and awkward conversations were near painful to me? And if I told you this, what would it mean? I hear your voice, grazing the paragraph before me, waiting. Your voice is a ghost, you are that far from my emotional grasp. I feel the faint whispers of black hair, I smell the sweet dampness of your interiors and I realize that we are not best friends. I can’t say these things, everything comes out tangled, released in palpitations rather than breaths. All I know is that something is missing and I can’t seem to find it. But then, as curious as you are- nothing remains a secret for long.

The evasive nature of complaining about the weather…

Not that I mind, the complaining that is. I often discuss matters that I have no intention of settling with immediate solutions. Rather that one is better suited in the future for making such decisions when one has verbally riddled that something out. A week with visitations is indeed a better one; Paige was in town momentarily. Counting constellations from her tan speckled cheeks, I envy her openness. She exists where I do not, doing things I long to do. She never ceases to impress with her kindness and fault hoods. We saw the golden compass at the trashy three dollar cinema {families of seven and cheap popcorn, oh my!}, leaning back in the seats, unwillingly. She isn’t afraid of interaction with David, which I appreciate. Often it feels as though many of my contemporaries are less than enthused with his presence, it is heartbreaking for me. I am less than whole without him and know that the next few months will be harder than ever. That got serious real fast… I will begin the time travelers wife tonight, and am most excited!

Love After Love

The time will comewhen, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott

This escape feels more like a really long detour…

“Sometimes our lives are less than extraordinary,” with cramped hands I manually dictate fragments of text into a workbook with my failing blue pen. “Sometimes our lives aren’t the greatest sources of inspiration,” I could cut the skin from the inner side of my ring finger and I wouldn’t feel it due to the obscene callous formed there. For the record nothing about beauty school is glamorous, try hideous and shameful for accuracy, indeed. If the sudden interest in seeing our completed workbooks were not on the agenda for tomorrow morning, today would have been a very good day. It happens, even now with the shards of my social life splintered and half protruding, uncomfortably from my ever tender skin. “Sometimes no amount of life resuscitating measures can prevent loss,” the myspace server is grinding to a halt but I can still see you have moved me down your friends list again, I am as shocked as I am not. Vibrating devices alert me that my mother has called, she offers advice, she offers unconditional love- I offer a no thank you. “Sometimes the ones we love are eager to help everyone but themselves,” the piece of paper crinkled in my hand is a statement saying that I have missed two months worth of class days, I have begun to bite at my lips again.