I finished where I started
I am where I began
If I had known that when I departed
I never would have ran
Along the orange skies so beautiful
Beside the pure and evergreen
And I would have certainly been regretful
Of the world I’d never seen
Do you have a minute?
Do you have the time?
To tell me
What I’m most anxious to hear:
Not the truth that loops wildly around us
Unbeknownst to us
But your piece of it
The piece that you hold,
Yours to give
Because it’s your truth
That I ponder
for Days and Days and Days
As I quietly,
count the ways
To make you
To make you
To make you
That it was always there
For me to fill the empty spaces
the broken pieces
That you still
hold on to
Let’s be honest
Love is a faith
that holds no faith
One that I, Faithe
have no hopes for
A faith I’ve left
In the desert somewhere
A desert as hot and unbearable
As the fiery furnace
That I hold for you
When you don’t tell me
That I’ve asked for.
In not so many words…
I admit, no one has ever looked at me quite like that. I’m not sure I have ever hated a look more.
It’s a look that says: Hey, I’m obligated to make conversation, but you know what? I’d rather be anywhere else. No, really. Pick a place. Especially, with your hot friend… Do you think if I stop trying to be friends with you she’ll stop wanting to screw me?
It’s so weird! I hear people talking about you and I hear, “Have you seen his eyes? He has gorgeous eyes.” And I hate your eyes. But mostly I hate how they look at me.
You know that way you speak to me? Do you speak to everyone that way? I admit, I’ve never quite paid attention when you speak to others. Just me, really. I suppose you could call that self-absorbed… It’s almost like you’re speaking to a child. A very weird child, whose parent you’re getting involved with. You speak to me as if I’m an obstacle. In this weirdly condescending manner and I don’t quite understand it.
It dawned on me recently that for conversation to work, all parties have to be interested in each other’s company. But here we are. You think I’m hard to speak to and I think the same about you. I think you’re boring, and maybe you think the same, about me? It wouldn’t surprise me.
I get it though. We don’t have much in common and I think I have so much animosity towards you because you don’t care if we do. Not really. And I hate that I can be even the slightest bit affected by whether someone else believes me worth conversation, but somehow I am. I care less than I would normally, but still, I care.
I’m annoyed by this. Which makes me annoyed by you. I have no real reason to dislike you other than, you seem bent on disliking me. So I just dislike you on principle. And there it is.
I almost want to call it jealousy, but it’s more like that word that means “pushed away, forgotten, left out”: the word I can’t remember.
And I guess that’s that. I just don’t like you all that much. Or your stupid eyes. Eh.
I need to write about you
I need to tell you things
About how much I miss you
And maybe even about my day.
You usually listen.
Or maybe you just pretend?
I liked the thought that you
liked the sound of my voice
speaking to you
regardless of the content.
I used to write really well.
It always sounded nice.
Sweet. Silky. Saturated?
But those were words that
And now they do.
And I can’t even make them rhyme.
They just don’t flow through me.
They don’t resemble anything even slightly
Because I don’t feel poetic.
I just feel…
But not lonely. Just alone?
Like I miss you.
And I’m not sure what it is that I miss.
I find my face contorting in ways that yours does
And it makes me smile.
For a second.
And then it makes me sad.
Because I just can’t see you do it.
Because right now it’s just a memory.
One I hold really close to me
but also somewhat far away
So it hurts less.
Because I realize that if I felt the pain
If I let myself actually feel it
It might actually hurt me.
Like nothing ever has before.
Because no one has ever quite mattered to me.
Like you do. How you do.
I might just be delusional.
Lost in the feeling of loss.
Anchored by pain, possibly imagined.
Maybe I like it.
Maybe it’s my own type of sanity.
And I’m trying so hard!
I like to say…
But I’m not sure I really am…
I like sinking in the thought of you.
Letting myself drift on the surface of feeling.
Within the small possibility that you love me.
In whatever way fits you.
And you care somewhat.
And what I want isn’t just in my mind.
But actually possible.
That’d be good.
You know how you can love people to the point that it actually sort of hurts you? Is it supposed to hurt like that?
I watched Sex and the City (the movie) last night and this time I actually finished it. Generally, I turn it on, it bores me to tears, and I turn it off somewhere near the middle (I figured you might have to watch the show to really enjoy it). But I finally ran it all the way through and I began to see why it was so popular. For one thing, whomever wrote that was definitely a horny bastard. During high school/early college/every period cycle I could probably watch that on an endless loop for days, and I’m only somewhat ashamed of that. More than that, it’s very smart, well written, and shows a very painful reality to different types of relationships. The kind of reality people generally want to forget exists, so they hide it away. Which, inherently, causes them to become lost in it and drawn to anyone or anything that offers them sweet relief in the form of empathy, or merely acknowledgement that they hadn’t imagined their suffering.
So I watched Sex and the City and found myself entertained by the reality of it. When I watch movies or shows or whatever else there is, I’m most interested in whatever character is either in a situation I am currently in, a situation I want to be in, or one I’m afraid of falling into and who reacts in a way I might react. In Grey’s Anatomy, I paid most attention to Cristina Yang. Smart, determined, loyal, and outspoken she went forward with the things she wanted and held no ties to anything that might hold her back. In Harry Potter, I was most interested in Harry, who cared for others deeply and was willing to sacrifice all that he had for the pursuit of their well-being, but also to satisfy his strong sense of pride and self-determination. In Sex and the City, I like Samantha and Charlotte. Sam, who has everything she had ever been told was worth having; A very good looking man, money for days, and an amazing career/living situation, but still finds herself lacking self-identity and must leave these things to pursue it. Then Charlotte, who is somewhat silly, a little complacent, a bit idealistic, and who’s only real fear is being so happy that the world will feel jilted and steal all of her joy for itself.
The reason I like them, I imagine, is the same as usual. I’m either in one of those situations, would like to be, or am afraid of being. Which is which? Not sure.
A friend of mine told me, “There’s a tendency among those who are emotionally injured to oscillate between what they want, what they think they want, and what feels safe for them to want, which is often three different things.” I feel like this fits somehow.
I’m on co-op working at a heart valve company in southern CA. On the weekends, those of us who are unmarried and in our twenties tend to hang out together. Every one seems to hang around each other for the same reasons; there’s no one else around. We’re all friends, but in the lightest form of the word. They’re not the people that I’ve chosen, but rather the people that I’ve been left with. I could leave at any moment, never see them again, and when I looked back I would think of them fondly. There’d be no pain, just good memories. I’m starting to see the appeal of that sort of thing. Is that the kind of thing most people have? Friends with no attachments? Because in this situation I can see myself falling into a relationship with someone and not actually caring about them. Just going through the motions. I see it being light and enjoyable, the same thing I’ve never understood. And yet there it is. Standing in front of me. I can see myself falling into happiness, into love, into a sweet silliness, into complacency, but also feeling thoroughly unsatisfied, lacking self-identity.
I’m starting to wonder if that’s what they mean by “be happy with what you have” or “the only thing stopping you from being happy is your attitude”. Because I get that. I could potentially trick myself into happiness. I could fall into it. I could have those things that everyone wants if I could just allow myself to trust fall into them. If I could trust myself to do it. If I could trust myself to believe it. But it seems rather like easing into a stupor. It seems like numbing your mind to only see happy things.
I’ve only known great things to cause both immense, rejuvenating amounts of happiness and deep, debilitating amounts of pain. And I’m drawn to that immense amount of rejuvenation. It gives me an irreplaceable high. And though I know the pain will come once it stops, I even find a satisfaction in the way it hurts me, a mental sort of masochism. And I don’t think I can keep myself satiated with that mundane, middle sort of love. The kind that you fall into. The kind that’s safe in it’s mediocrity. And the life that accompanies it.
I need to be surrounded by all of those things that are painful to leave. I need to be where the word “love” means something and isn’t just a greeting. I want to thank God for all things that surround me and mean it. I want to be among family, not just people. I need to be in a place that I choose with the love that I’ve chosen and grown accustomed to. The kind of love that’s rich and fattening, and that hurts, more than anything.
And whether I’m in them, wish to be in them, or am afraid of the realities Sam and Charlotte portray?
I think I’m a mixture of the three.