You

Right now, think of the best you.  Think of the best you, who you’ve ever been.  What were you like?  What things did you say?  What were you capable of?  Did you love, that you?

Well, when I’m actually there, at my best, I feel invincable.  It’s a moment when your heartbeat is calm and your eyelids close contently and let peace rush into your mind.  And with your eyes closed, you smile visably, but almost like you’re smiling to yourself.  Like, “ I’m worth this.”

It sounds so complex, but it’s really the most simple of situations that leads up to the most blissful experience, each and every time.

So simple, when I roll over at night, I’m sharing the same pillow.  The day that I screamed into that pillow and slammed my fists into the mattress.  The mattress that endures days of laziness and unproductivity.  The days that mean the most but so little at all.  I just feel the days turn into time and the time we share create one long memory of happiness.  It isn’t short memories of happiness.  But one long lifestyle of happiness.  Not just a diet of good things, but a lifestyle of change.  I feel the positive energy feed my life into a new and progessing situation, and I am finally there.  I am at my best.

You give me the courage to be who I am.  To seek what I am not.  And bring back the me I have been.  The complexity of who I am is simple with you, and not only do I understand, I feel understood.

Mark the Words

Happy New Year.  2012.  Holy shit where have the last seven years gone?  That’s a good question that I keep hearing-even when they seem to have been good and gone, there is always that nowhere theory.

I didn’t have a resolution this year.  Okay, that’s actually a lie.  I wanted to start writing again, or forgive myself for stopping.  But I’ve already missed two days, so I realized that I can’t even dignify that as a resolution if I ALREADY failed.  But this is me we’re talking about, so I’m not shocked in the least.

But 1 outta 3 ain’t half bad, especially if we’re talking about marriages, which we are not, but I’m sure that’s gotta be a kinda good statistic considering everyone is either divorced, wish they were, or Kim Kardashian.

I’m not really sure if you can force yourself to write by indirectly stating a rule for the next 365 days.  It really just does not work like that.  I’m a very hit or miss writer.  But actually, not really, if you know me but at all.  It comes down to therapy.  I fucking hate therapists.  I’ve been to my fair share … once.  And no offense to their profession, but I never once felt like I was making progress. Most say, I didn’t give it a chance.  I disagree.  I just know what it feels like when someone genuinely gives a shit, and a shit they did not give. Waste of mah time. But dwelling in my own self-pity?  Now, that is truuuue progess.  Acting psychotic and exposing the deepest of your very core for anyone to see?  Not only is that classy, but that’s pretty fucking crazy.  More than crazy I bet.  I bet we’re more than crazy, probably somewhere between fucking brave and real.

And that’s what I miss.  I miss writing because I miss feeling real.  And for those of you where “real” is just a word.  End your reading.  Now.  Because, like this blog has always been, for those that just get it.  You get that friendship is based upon more than similarity and mirages.  Hate isn’t a term that separates us, but just exposes misunderstanding or insecurities.  Trust is harder to expect of yourself than someone else.  Hope is the swell of your heart and drop of a stomach.  And the love that we come and go to find isn’t in the fight.  It’s in the simple hand that understands everything we never said.

The void of the unknown and the possibility of a blank page is the most comforting thought of this whole process.  Like my favorite song right now says, “ When you love something, you love it all the same.”  So even though it’s scary to give this shit a shot again, it’s something that even when it fails . . .

It never really does.

So, if it’s never really over.  Don’t give up.

Derailed

A rush of blood, I’m turning over until you sink me.  I’m captivated by your distraction.  I could promise I’m sleeping less.  Your eyes flash in blue, flickering the next fifty slides of contract.

The dark street that leads me to your door is decorated with regret.  Your ignorance footlights the path and I’m led into a world of obstruction.

But you meet me eye to eye.  I’m equal to your balance.  I skip the demands but hide my feet.  I wish that you had the moment of free fall before you; jump the cliff and come after me.  I let my eyelashes introduce you to the story I’m dying to tell, you watch the tear break me down, and build me back up again.

It’s all a deep desire to feel what we want, and hope to want what we have.

Enticed

I sat there in silence and you stared me down.  You stripped me bare and watched me fumble through the next few rounds.  I gripped the chair and held my ground, as my story was honest and exposed to the bone.  Your eyes were quizzical behind a rim of hate; I wanted so badly to feel you, but settled just the same.  I heard what I had to say, but I didn’t say what I wanted to.  I watched you watch the broken pieces of me.  I knew you wanted me whole.  I searched every corner of that small space for a reason to stay. I walked you high and watched you pass.  I soaked the moment in because I knew you’d wash it away as fast as it came.  Your frustration messed up your hair; I messed up your mind.  Walk me down, but I know you’re stuck.  Feel me now, but I know you won’t.

Moving Down, Fast

I remember tracing the mark of defeat across my face; hard enough to feel, soft enough to pretend it wasn’t there.  I fell into a locked gaze with myself.  I didn’t ask for help.  I bit my lip and wished her away.  I left, afraid to slip back into a moment of recognition.

I remember running against the hard pavement.  I believed that the harder I ran equated the strength I had.  I believed that the lack of destination gave me hope for an ending I didn’t know yet.  I swear, I knew where I was supposed to be.

I remember standing in the middle of a green field.  I danced through the emerald blanket, quickening my pace; I was almost there.  The sun weaved through each piece and settled on my face.  I threw my wrists of beads, and hair of gold back and reached to feel the ocean of sky that covered my body.

I remember smiling in the middle of the numbered shadows. The road was rocky and slowing down near hole seven.  I couldn’t see past your tranquility, you helped me out and through.  My hand sat gently in yours; you led me into your arms as we danced to nothing at all.  I fell into a giggle and pulled you with me to center of the green landing.  I tackled you to the moist bed of trimmed perfection below us. You whispered something about beauty in Spanish.

I forget it now, but I remember that there could be nothing better.