I have many beginnings
But no ending
I’m looking for a climax
And all I find
And somewhat plain
“All I want”
Is always the start
Of an untrue statement
I want too much
To single one thing out
I find everyone searching for
I want those things
But it always seems
In inappropriate manners
Ways that are too simple
To be asked for
Are much too lightly taken
Should ask for more
But then not really
The physicalities of romance
Is not so much more
To be asked for
Than I want
And have always wanted
Is less a cause
To be fought for
Which may be a sign of
What everyone says is
The most sane
And the epitome
Of self discovery
If only truth
Weren’t such a
Is that all there is?
That makes so much sense.
Is that all there is?
It all makes so much sense.
I think I noticed what my mind looks like
It’s a weirdly large universe inside of there
It’s easy to get stuck
Somewhere if you’re wandering around
I understand the psychedelic colors now
I get tie dye
I’ve never been so scared in my life
Than when I realized I was stuck
In a cyclical universe
For all of eternity
And everyone knew
And once you knew you couldn’t not know
Enlightenment brought suffering
Enlightenment brought you back to real reality
Where there is only the ongoing search
For either God
Once you reached either side
You knew that both were each other
And you were doomed to forget again
It never stopped
I learned that I panic
I panic and rage
I knew that
In the back of my mind I knew
Though I’d hoped I could retain
Sanity that I’m unsure of now
Because the world seems to make more sense
When you’re not in it
I saw things with clarity
I knew where I was
My words were spoken with purpose and control
Until the other two cookies set in
That I accidentally ate
Because I’d never touched drugs before
And didn’t know what they tasted like
And I had eaten 3 before someone
Yelled at me to stop
Then I was on the ground
I think I was writhing
All at once
I kept seeing Josh
Josh’s face is oddly centering
And hearing the same words
From people all around
“It’s gonna be okay Faithe”
“Are you all right?”
Over and over
I got sick of the sound
And the words
Written across a blue and yellow screen
A curvy, spacey, font
And the cyclical images
A sofa couch
“What the fuck?”
My hands through my hair
“Can you get up?”
“Come with me”
And then I’d wake up on the couch again
It’d all start over
The same images
The same questions
The same cyclical, funneling, falling feeling
I once knew from way back when
My hair again
My life from beginning to end
I couldn’t do it
Not once again
Is that all there is?
It all makes so much sense
I contemplated suicide
But realized death began more things than it ended
I needed to do things I hadn’t before
To prove I could move forward
At least a bit
I’m fairly certain I felt someone up
I’m fairly certain I punched a girl in the nose
A really nice girl
With a very high voice
And I woke up on the couch again
“You’re gonna be okay Faithe”
“What the fuck?”
“Are we doing that again?”
“God damn it!”
I realized they knew
They were comforting me
In the realization
While knowing they too had come to terms with it
When they finally woke up
They knew there was no end
And yet still were fine with living
In a cyclical universe
How could they not know?
When so many words
And come back again?
“How could you not tell me???”
The girl was gone
It was cause for suspicion
I had possibly moved from one loop
Successfully into another
One without her in it
Though I still heard her voice
It echoed a bit
I wondered if I had gotten out
By doing something I would never do
And forcing gravitational sensibility into my current world
I saw Eric’s face
I studied his eyes
“Do you really not know?”
That your life is worthless
That we’re going nowhere
That you and I are specks of dust on an infinitely revolving time lapse
He looked at me with genuine concern
I looked at the guy next to him
He didn’t know
No one knew
That’s why they weren’t raging
They were focused
They were present
Not in a million real lives at once
In the one where the girl’s nose was swollen
I laid back down
It was finished
I had focused again
But did it matter?
Wasn’t it a lie all the same?
I could pretend I wasn’t aware
Eventually I might forget
Hopeful I relaxed in the moment
Tired of the panic
I begged for peace
Even in denial
And fell asleep
But when I woke up
I still couldn’t tell
Which real was more so
How sane was my insanity?
If that was all an active imagination
Then I have been sleep my whole life
Reality feels so much less real
Even 4 days after…
“The world will astound you with its grace if you let it.” – 5 to 7
I watched a rather confusingly sweet movie the other day. I watched it, fell into an awe filled stupor, and watched it again the following day. It had the heart of a romance, yet was bridled with the conflicts brought upon by social standards. It made my heart flutter a bit with the beauty and grace of it all, leaving it saddened by the loss of love. I fell into a wishful longing once again, the kind of feel only achieved through watching incredibly touching rom coms.
There was a beautiful, charming woman. Her face lit up the screen. Had the movie no substance whatsoever, it may have still caught an eye or two by her smile alone. The young man who approached her was enchanted by her and I by his enchantment. She was married with children and he was her lover. It was an agreement known by all, including the husband who had a mistress himself, and even mentioned by the children. The man was distraught by his love for this older woman with the dazzling smile and the conflict in his heart that felt strangely like eternal damnation. How odd it was for them all to be so happy in this situation. How odd it was for him to feel at place. He often expressed his confusion and discomfort with it all to which she replied with the smooth accent of a French native:
“Let go of your ideas of what you think life should be. The world will astound you with its grace if you let it.”
The words spoken silkily and with a charming confidence have been floating through my mind ever since.
I have not known the world to astound me with grace. It has often surprised me with it’s cruelty and knack for disappointing circumstances, but grace? I’ve rarely known. So the words dance back and forth through my mind as I wonder if I have ever let it.
Has the world astounded this woman because it itself was taken aback by her charm? Or did she relax against the world and let it charm the smile onto her? Have I let it? Would it make a difference? Maybe we should all just let go?
The lights have gone out in the bathroom and my roommate and I have yet to fix them. At the moment it’s being lit by candlelight. I don’t know if I’ll change it any time soon. I probably won’t. The effect seems to fit my life, which always sounds so dramatic when I tell about it that I laugh at the recanting. Occasionally, I even laugh when it’s happening. Drama seems so funny in real life. It just looks so out of place. And yet, it’s sort of all I really know.
Though drama befits the circumstance, I’m not actually thinking about anything all that dramatic. I was thinking about being someone. Whomever it is I’m supposed to be. I was thinking about how to become that without throwing away everything about me that I’ve spent my whole life trying to be. It sounds deep and thoughtful, but I think it might be more of an excuse to prolong my enjoyment of the candlelight.
I was thinking about rejection. I applied to be commencement speaker this year. I’m graduating college. I didn’t get it and that wasn’t surprising. I think at this point, I’ve applied to and gotten rejected by so many things that I’m a bit numb to the feeling. I see the words “I am sorry to…” give a polite, “oh okay”, sit back down, and finish my tea. If I’d decided to believe in purpose this week, I would’ve said that all of my rejections these past few years have been a plan to rid me of the fear often preceding them. I’m not sure I believe in that this week though. This week I just feel like the universe is being a bitch.
Every thing I go for gives the remarkable impression of being right outside of my reach. I can touch the glimmer of success with the tips of my fingers, but it never glows close enough for me to feel it’s warmth. They told me, as they usually do, of how very close I was. They told me, as they generally do, that the attempt I made was a phenomenal effort. They told me, as they often do, that they enjoyed it so much they were working to give me a consolation prize. I smiled. I thanked them. As I ordinarily do. My stomach fell to my toes (it’s very comfortable there) and I all but laughed aloud at the familiarity. They brought me in to tell me this. They wanted to reject me personally. My inner me keeled over in laughter. How often does something have to happen for it to be routine? How often in my life will I be great, but not great enough?
How is it that I can be everything I want to be and give everything I have to give and it still not be worth anything tangible? I do not feel devalued. I’ve spent too much of my life growing my self esteem to knock it down with things so slight, but still… Occasionally, I have to wonder: what it is about what I want to be that is not great enough to be seen as worthy? If I can do better then so be it, but who is it that decides what is best? Why is my idea of great so different than yours? What is it that you see? What is it that you see in me that’s wrong? Who should I ask for the final word?
I guess it always just reminds me that I’ve gotten more being likable than I have ever gotten from being seen as highly merited. It’s both amazing and slightly disappointing to be seen as less than you see yourself as. It’s humbling as well as discouraging.
My brother says that merit is too relative to certain people to be discouraged by its judgment. “It’s not that you’re not great, it’s that your type of greatness has yet to be seen by the right people.” And then both playfully and seriously he references the history of most great, dead artists…
It’s a funny thing, candlelight. Even playful words seem like painfully dramatic endings…
When you’re at your most vulnerable, do you find yourself in places that you once knew?
The places you feel like you spent your whole life?
Last night I found myself on Plaina Rd. Looking at the old forgotten rocks that my father placed for desert decoration and running across my old forgotten driveway. It was a simple enough setting. I can’t remember where I was going or who I was with, but I remember when she showed up. Her hair bleached once again, short enough to touch her shoulders. Wearing that green coat she always wore with the furry hood, a somewhat cheap looking edition. She wasn’t the girl I remembered, but she was the one I saw in pictures back when I was missing her. She walked passed me while I was running and I smiled and turned around in her direction. I always knew she would reject me once again, but I always did it just in case she smiled back and I could see my old friend again. She was walking with someone and didn’t stop to talk, but as I always have done, I ran after. She did smile at me. She always does accidentally and I guess that’s why I never stop coming back. She smiled at my silly remarks despite herself while I chased her down, but when I finally caught up to her she turned around and looked at me solemnly. We were stopped in front of my old wire gate, the one that let into the backyard. Nothing but dirt and a swing set, but somehow lovely all the same. And as I smiled at her, a joke hanging at the corner of my mouth, she turns to me and says, “I’m not yours, Faithe.”
I had always told her she was mine. That my world and everything in it was hers because of it. That it was me and her until the end of forever. We’d fight off the world together, and when she got tired of fighting I’d fight for her. And when she got married, to whatever man she chose, I would regale stories of our adventures, smile and give her away. But she had said it. Finally and completely. Words I always knew, but I filtered out of my reality. She started to turn away again, hands in her pockets, she’d walk into a backyard sunset. But before she turned completely, I spoke out.
“Hey,” my voice rang out, the entire front yard was silent as she looked at me the last time. “I wouldn’t want you to be.”
I was surprised at how much truth reverberated in it. I was surprised at my own calm at her words, but I had let her go a long time before and had just never said it. There was a lot of pain I could remember but none of it was present then. I rather her be happy away from me. I rather she love her life in the way she pleases. I rather she feel that love I had always given from the person she wishes it from. I rather let her be ok so I can be ok too.
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?
“But I don’t want to be good, I want to be Great.”
I say those words. I say them often, and every time I feel them deeply enough to sense the liberation between each slight break, I also feel them bounce back at me moments later, rejected by the very world that inspired them.
It’s an interesting thing, greatness. No one truly knows what it means because of its immense relativity. We could ponder it all day and only ever get a one-sided understanding. Like viewing artwork or reading poetry, it’s meant to bring about opinions, not convey them. The thought has stumped me more than once.
I want to be Great.
There. I said it again. And I think I might say it too often.
“Great people don’t sit around pondering about what makes them great. They lead by example and just… are.”
I said that too. Because I thought I was thinking too much about it. What I should be, who I should become, how I should act, whom I should favor, are all ridiculous questions to ask. I’m roaming through life trying to make it into something. I’m trying to mold my life into what I think it should be, but I haven’t quite figured out what it should look like yet so I’m just blindly creating something. When people walk past, they see it and are just as confused about it as I am. Only thing is, they think I know what I’m doing.
I’m just trying to be Great.
Ah, there it is again. The relativity. What do I even think Greatness is?
I don’t think you should have to think about it. But is there anything that I haven’t thought about?
You look at me
Eyes tinted with supplication
Helpless, In need, and Expectant
The look in your eyes asks me for more
But don’t you know I have given my all?
Don’t you know I always do?
I pour out my soul
In helpless surrender
All that I have floods around you
Kisses you lightly
Gently pushes you forward
The love drains me
But I lie satisfied
Content, Happy, and Exhausted
And I look at you
Eyes barely open
Watching the waves sway you
And bring you closer to where you’d like to be
And before I sleep I relish in your happiness
I breathe it in proudly
And before I sleep I notice you looking at me
Eyes tinted with supplication
Helpless, In need, and Expectant
The look in your eyes asks me for more
And I cry because I cannot give it
And it hurts me, as I lie there knowing
That surely if you would like me to live
You would accept that there is nothing more that I can give.
You look at the world in black and white. All I see is grey area.
The thing about me is I don’t see things as temporary. The moment that you hurt me you hurt me eternally even though eternity eventually passes.
You might see contradictions to this. Possibly from things I’ve said before? When I said to you that nothing lasts? That all things come to a halt and I’m always well aware? And this is true. I am always well aware. But I live in the present. When I feel, I feel strongly and the strength of the feeling lasts forever. Even if forever is contained within a moment.
When things don’t work well, I think of failure as a permanent state. The pain cuts me deeply and I’m wounded for life. Until it passes and I am left completely content and satisfied, the two most permanent feelings in the world.
And it’s funny to me that something that feels so permanent can live in a state of such impermanence. In this grey area where nothing is truly true, everything is relative, and contradictions actually make for more genuine statements. But then, I suppose, if you word it that way, it’s really not all that surprising at all.
He gave me his hand to hold. It was an act of chivalry that I’m unfamiliar with. That I’m not used to. It’s something every girl has probably gotten from a boy; a hand to put weight on, but it was new to me. It’s something I’ve never understood and never desired.
“I’m independent.” I would tell myself. “I need help from no one.”
I said it so often that I thought it was something I would never want, but now, after I’ve had it, I’m starting to think I only said that to numb the pain of its absence.
I didn’t need it. It’s not something I asked for, but he gave it to me to be nice, because I’m a girl and he’s a boy. And I took it, for politeness’ sake, because his hand was outstretched waiting for me. He balanced my steps, watched for a stumble, and waited with a look of concern so he could catch me if I fell.
I didn’t need him. I was perfectly capable. I had balanced myself before in just this way, and maybe he didn’t know that, but quite possibly he would have done it even if he had.
I’m a girl and he’s a boy and at that moment I was aware of it and completely conscious of the fact that he knew it too.
It confused me. It wasn’t normal. People usually take a look at me and deem me capable. Because I’m the one who carries my bags, who opens my door, who gives a girl an arm to lean on with the promise I will catch them. I’ve always been that girl. But I’ve never been a girl.
And it was pleasant. And it was inviting. And it was sweet. And I felt slightly embarrassed about it, but I still appreciated the gesture. Though I didn’t need it, and probably will never need it, I liked it. I liked the willingness and I liked that it was natural to him. Natural for him to help a girl. Natural for him to think of me as a girl. A regular girl. One that is worth helping.