There’s something stunning about early morning, before the sun rises and the frost on the grass has had time to evaporate. It’s quiet except for the wind. Even the nocturnals seem to be in a warm spot, refusing disturbance. Yet, through the stillness and bitter cold that cuts through the body immediately, it is this time of day that I miss, that makes me feel so alive.
I should feel alone without the sound of someone, something scurrying about the leaves or among their homes. It’s a Saturday morning to sleep in before coffee with lots of sugar, thank you. It’s a new day though it feels like the end to an unhappy day. So it is true: every ending is a beginning.
I ran up my sidewalk for refuge out of the wind. My mind was growing numb along with my ears. When I stopped suddenly, it could have been for a noise in the bushes or a light moving down the road; movement ceased when I thought about how, what I feared was mutating into something I couldn’t recognize. Recognition is key with most issues but when that element is gone, we consider ourselves normal… Should I mention that things change?
It was once the fear of the exposure. Ripping layer upon layer away and finding nothing in the center but a sad shape of the one I think I remembered fondness of. It was easy, simple, non-destructive. Now, it’s something completely different. I can hear it in my own voice. And they’re all false: the mumblings, phrases, and incoherent grumbles are lies. It has penetrated much deeper.
I can stand up and consider myself light as a feather, daring to give myself even the slightest wind but through that, I’m knocked off the roof like a stone heavy in myself.
It’s an odd stance. The incapability to not be vulnerable and yet completely careless all the same. As though I hold the grenade and the pin, the dynamite and match, the hearth and nothing.
The opposite of love is apathy.
How did I get to this point of feeling absolutely everything and becoming so insanely reckless with it all? It was, until recently, the opposite and I despised it. Now I don’t know if this newness that I’m dealing with is any better. The truth is, I suck at people. I’m great at meetings but very bad with keeping things going. I meet people I want to be friends with to push them away. ”I’m through,” I tell myself. A year ago, it was the stone truth. I was over it. I didn’t care one way or the other, contact or none. It’s now that I try to renounce those words and rather, it’s me who I’m through with. So I start forgetting my wallet, my bag, my shoes… In the span on 3 minutes.
And I get drunk and take silly photos with people I don’t know and will never meet again. It’s not them I’m through with but me.
This isn’t meant to be some melodramatic drunken rant of how I’m really bad at keeping anything nice and pretty (I mean, have you seen my new car?).
This is supposed to be about how those darkest moments in which you think there isn’t anyone around to hear you scream or sympathize with the 20-something degree weather that you’re standing in, looking up to the stars to see if you can identify Orion’s Belt or the sisters, head bent way back, squinting against the light pollution of the city… It supposed to be about in the moments when you least expect it, you find just what you’re looking for: a thought, a feeling, a house key to the warmth.
This was supposed to be a metaphor for how absolutely lucky I’ve realized I am at 5:32am on a Saturday morning.
I’m alive and well. Things are wonderful. And please, forgive my typos and grammar slurs for the many glasses of whiskey still has a warm grip on me. It’s now 5:55am and I think it’s finally bedtime.
Jan 14
5:32am, Saturday, January 14th
I let things get out of control. I just wanted a laugh. Instead I’m angry at myself and I’m angry at the possibility of upsetting other people. I hate this. I hate how fragile I’ve become—how “too nice” I seem. I would rather run myself over time and time again than hurt anyone.
What’s so stupid is that I haven’t hurt anyone. I know I haven’t. But still, I continue to beat myself up about it over and over again, endlessly. I just don’t know how to stop the cycle.
It’s simple—the screwing up part. My chances haven’t faltered any more than they would have days ago, no. But I’ve changed. In the blink of an eye, it’s over. It’s over before it’s begun. Why? Because with that one rejection, that one playful moment of mocking for jokes, the wall that I’ve tried time and time again to remain open, to not build up—I don’t need protecting, I tell myself—there it goes again. I don’t even have time to stop it. It’s there and it’s so high that I can’t peer around it, over it. I don’t know if I’m ever going to have the ability to take it down. If I knew the solution, I wouldn’t be writing this.
Until then, I’ve put up the barrier without even wanting to. It’s done.
It’s over before it’s begun.
Maybe they’ll be others. Maybe they’ll be the ones I still miss.
I wanted you to be one of the first people I told because I feel like you deserve to know. Honesty has always been key, hasn’t it? I met someone new. And I don’t know if I’m in love with him or if I’m in love with the notion of finding someone who isn’t you that I can freely be with and enjoy… But the point is, he’s there and available. And I’m beginning to care about him.
The thing is, I don’t know if he snores or if he steals sheets. I don’t know if, when he’s having a bad day that he gets quiet and watches television alone. I have no idea what he listens on the radio, how he takes his coffee, or if his ears turn red with he’s anxious. I don’t know if he devotion to anything even comes close to your devotion to your flip flops.
Instead, I sit here and I answer my own list of questions as though you’re here: your snores and sheet stealing, you listen to NPR and like black coffee. I know your very being, your habits and thoughts. I am you.
But I’m trying so hard to detach myself from who I am, you, in order to be free. I want to fly away with someone who loves me as much as I love them.
You were never my co-pilot.
"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It’s easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven’t even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."
- Chuck Klosterman
Nov 27[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]Nov 27
The Raconteurs - “Steady, As She Goes”
Nov 26
“An Eastern Asian legend originating in China and also referred to in Japanese mythology as well. According to this myth, the gods would tie an invisible red string around men and women who were meant to be soul mates and in time, would marry one another. This magical string can twist, tangle, or stretch, but the ‘bond’ will neverbreak.
The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of time, place, or circumstances.”
No matter how far you go, we are always connected. I love you so much.
Glen Hansard and Markets Irglova - “Falling Slowly”
Take this sinking boat and point it home. We’ve still got time. Raise your hopeful voice. You have the choice. You’ve made it now.
I’ve been up late the past few nights. I can feel you here with me, roaming my hall and living room. I imagine you now laying on the couch, feeling the warmth of the fireplace across your body. You’re relaxed as I sit here and type this small message to you.
I can’t imagine you past the door of my bedroom. Instead, you lean your head on the doorframe and flash your coy smile at me. You’re beautiful, you know. My soul pushes against my ribs, wishing to either escape or propel my body against yours. Rather, you fade into the cycle again.
I miss you terribly, honey.
