Confessions

Love does discriminate. It pleases those that share it and punishes those who look. It teases those that gaze upon it. It hides in shadows and breeze, shaping images of other's romance. We all desire, we all covet, we all wonder what it is that other's have that might provide a few more precious moments of loving bliss.

When you find your love, whether that is love forever or love for the moment, you will cease staring outward wondering what other's have. And, will focus inward on joy and the fear of losing what you have found. Without passion there is no pleasure, and without loss, pleasure has no standard to uphold.

Breath

Even before the slightest heaving can be heard, before the lungs open and slowly fill with air, before all of this, wanting.

This suffering: that I can't be absolutely still, quiet, or happy--all the same things.

That every "wanting," every movement, every word, speaks to my insecurity.

That every word means to speak to you.

I feel so cruel!

I want so badly to comfort you and help you feel better but I also feel as though my hands are tied. I do care about what happens to you and I really want you to succeed in life. Please lift your head up and be strong like I know you are capable of being. It is not too late for you to have a wonderful future. I know that life is hard without me but I also know that "this too shall pass". Remember I use to put that quote everywhere. I often miss you, often think about you, and you are constantly in my head.

Moments...

There are moments when clarity of purpose shines true, when the routine details of daily existence give way to the recognition of what is important. You wake, you work, you talk, you interact, you wait; wait for something real, wait for moments in which your desires will be met, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe only when you when you close your eyes and wonder what it is you are missing. Passion, excitement, adventure, arousal, interest creation, anticipation; are these possibilities or simply descriptors on the back of a paperback you buy to avoid thinking about what it is you are missing. Is this settling? Is this all there is? Is this the life you want?

Compulsion..

Some people have the compulsion to steal. Or lie. I have the compulsion to be a wiseass to my mother. This has never ended well for me, in all my twenty-three years, and yet I can't seem to stop. :P

...

I don't dislike you. I wish I did. But what would be the point? You are like a storm. You don't like or dislike something of nature, you just try to survive it and hope for the best.

My Single Star

I'm cold. Its a crisp fall night tonight. There is a quiet movement of the air, just strong enough to ruffle my hair, give me goose-bumps. But the breeze is not strong enough to move the leaves.
I love the rich colors of fall. The orange of all the pumpkins at the market, burnt umber of the bald trees, burgundy of the crunchy leaves on the ground. The vivid colors are all intensified by the deep charcoal sky.
Its a cloudless night, the reason why its so bitterly cold. I am willing to forgo the brisk air in order to temporarily clear my head-- to feel the absolute silence deep down into my soul, silence so overwhelming that I sometimes find it hard to breathe. It envelops you, wraps around you and just for a second makes everything perfect. In this second, I do not feel cold.
I look up to see the stars. I've always been a star-gazer. Much to my surprise, I only see one. One single shining star. I immediately think of you, darling. I don't know why. I contemplate why, on a perfectly clear night with minimal light pollution, there would be only one star shining. Normally, there are hundreds filling the sky from corner to corner. Perhaps its me, not focusing on anything but this star.
I'm thinking of you. I want you. I have a strong desire to hug you, hold you. You are my shining star. There is something special about you, and I don't understand it. But I love you.

It feels so weird, to be on the other side, where you are the one expected to offer condolences, not receive them. I want my "sorry" to sound genuine, because it is. That is the hard thing about grief, and the grieving. They speak another language, and the words we know always fall short of what we want them to say.