You think you're a martyr
Just because you've had a broken heart
You think yourself a wise man
Because love has made a fool of you
But, sweetie, you put the ass in asinine
You pull in as much as you can
Until you expel me like a puff of smoke
So intrigued with your own worry
To pester with your repercussions
But, honey, I see how lonely you are
For someone so desperate not to hurt
You certainly cause a lot of damage
Sometimes I wonder
If your apologies are just appeasements
But, darling, you make me blush from embarrassment
Operatic in quality, an unexpected duet in the solo
Rustic in the unironic way that screams simple
Brawn and muscle, tanned skin on a hot summer day
Cars on the small town boulevard
Fill 'er up and look under the hood
Money to buy those cigarettes
Living the American dream or so he thought
A boyish veteran
Good for nothing, but desperate to prove something
Prudish and plain, not like her sister
Watchful and envious
So protected yet no anxiety for danger
Spurn the advances of others
But make an exception for him
Butterflies and palpitations
The love she had oft been denied by others
Romance unlike any other
Young love untainted by reality
World weariness would utterly destroy it
Hormones and hot blood rushing under the collar
Going all the way and back again
The look in her eyes that screams devotion
The look in his eyes that whispers security
A ring by spring. A ring by spring
Assuredness is worn down by disapproval
A Romeo and Juliet without the theatrics
Bonds strengthen, bonds break
"I love you more than I love myself."
"I worry about our consequences"
"I think only of a happy future"
"I think I can't"
Letters cease into silence
A ring is removed to be replaced by a vow of chastity
Love never dies, but it does waver
So much remorse, a blizzard in an emotional winter
Longing looks hidden by hostility
Misplaced passion
Forever together, forever together
Barely a day apart, like a bitter torture
Together but absolutely separate
Every so often a look of anger replaced by one of tenderness
A memory of love swept under the rug
But a connection not even God could deny
His eyes stopped seeing, but he always saw her face
His heart beat for her, but now it began to fade
His body could barely continue
And she found him, she knew where to look
Hospice made her feel so mortal
She was his last thought.
She sometimes prays for him
She sometimes prays for another chance
To be young and to choose him over everything else
But you don't get second chances
She knows that well
All she can do is bide her time
Until she can see him again
For, if there is a God, then He would reunite them in heaven for all of eternity.
"If my body breaks, then my heart you'll take this time."
Time has a funny way of making the mind slightly less discerning than it once was.
The slow motion vignettes that trickle through your stream of consciousness always appear so maudlin and rehearsed.
And, of course, things always glimmer gold in the warmth of the past.
The warmth of the words "long ago" and "years before" can tickle and tease the heart.
As she drove out of that place for what would be her last time, she sat in that sweet glow.
Buildings stood aloof to her stares as she concentrated more on the rearview mirror than the road ahead.
It was a place she was sure that, at one point, she had despised.
It was a place that challenged her in so many ways.
For so long there was an animosity built up between them.
But, now, she felt like a foolish child.
She was beginning to cling to the tethers that had once binded her.
A sentimentality that she once felt too mature for.
Perhaps, she thought, this is what growing up was like.
The angst that defines youth slowly wears away... and you're able to wink at small faults.
The smiles, the tears, the frustration, the life- all those things she had come to know intimately.
Now they were the fodder of her flashbacks.
As the buildings are no longer visible, she feels an urge to turn around sink into her head.
But, she never does head back.
And so, life continues and the world keeps spinning around.
And sometimes she sits awake at night and visualizes a world that once was.
A young child walking down an uneven sidewalk, unsure, meek, and naive.
A wistful woman making salutations with the past.
Sometimes she catches faint glimpses of their friendship
The old memories that once were reality
She can feel them slip slowly away
The secrets, the companionship... fading to grey
And now there's emptiness
A most noticeable and daunting void
But she knows quite well this was her doing
Given the choice twice
She chose wrong
She shouldn't be sad
She should accept her fate
To no longer have that old memory by her side
Yet, it can't help but to haunt her
The contact in her phone that she can't delete
The Frou Frou song she can no longer listen to
The void that used to be the memory
Do we need unhappiness in our lives? Are we incapable of somehow ridding ourselves of unhappy thoughts such that they no longer exist? Is unhappiness some sort of cathartic expression we need for happiness? What is unhappiness? I think, in order to better understand what makes me happy, I must first understand what happiness is. More importantly, what is unhappiness? I feel as though unhappiness is a much more concrete place to start. You see, whenever one is happy, one does not identify with this world. In essence, you become other-worldly. But, when we are unhappy- that is when we feel most human. Rarely am I so connected to this world as when I am unhappy. So, unhappiness seemed like an easier concept to grasp. When are we unhappy? What makes us unhappy? For some, it is knowing that there will always be another that is better than them. For others, it is the fear that derives from lack of partnership. And still others, it is the injustice of everyday life. So, unhappiness can boil down to three things: fear (uncertainty), injustice, and the inconsequential nature of one's self. Really, all of these things can be seen as the ego. Primarily, unhappiness is a selfish emotion. One cannot feel unhappiness for others (though you can feel things such as empathy or sympathy), but one cannot intrinsically feel the exact same unhappiness as the other. Therefore, unhappiness is solitary. We cannot successfully communicate it across to others because they do not have our experiences. And, yet, we all feel unhappiness. At this point in history, there are nearly 7 billion people on this Earth, and we have all felt unhappiness. Whereas one child can feel unhappiness over materialism (i.e. not getting a manufactured toy), there is another child bemoaning the fact that he will not eat tonight. I am not here to belittle that which makes one unhappy. But to have such a plethora of reasons is boggling. Unhappiness is selfish. While the word "selfish" comes with inherently negative connotations, it is not a detestable thing for one to be unhappy. If unhappiness is selfish and solitary, how do we go about changing it? Or, does it even need to be changed at all? Perhaps, like the idea of antinomy, unhappiness must exist in order for happiness to survive. Would we have conceptions of happiness if we were not first introduced to misery? Let's, for the moment, say that we were to go about changing unhappiness. In order for this to happen, we must find a way to create effluence (i.e. the pouring out of emotion). We must create a channel in which to truly relate to another human being, to transcend the egotistical nature of unhappiness. While it is not likely to find another human being with the exact same experiences as you, there may be the possibility for effluence. If possible, can one create a bridge of understanding that precludes the inherent differences between us? This bridge, unfortunately, seems unlikely because it these bridges of understanding are always marred by empathy, sympathy, pity, and judgment. While these four emotions are not necessarily bad (we must still retain all four to interact with others), they are the four horseman of effluence. These emotions inherently prescribe outwardness to the party that is trying to create effluence. There must be oneness in order to achieve effluence; otherwise, effluence becomes confession. So, it seems unlikely that we can change happiness. Karl Jaspers once said, “When man faces the tragic, he liberates himself from it.” Then- should we make attempts to embrace our unhappiness as a way to escape it? Embracing implies the presupposition of acceptance. This seems a far more plausible path for our unhappiness. Because unhappiness is derived from the self, it should be settled by the self. While this seems a bit Stoic, one must realize the enduring nature of time. Though we experience regret (what I refer to as latent unhappiness), there is simply nothing than can be done about it. Time travel, wishing, etc. these are all methods of redress, but they fail at providing any action. Therefore, regret can be seen as a personal purgatory. We entertain these ideas of redress, yet we are still aware of their lack of plausibility. Self-torture is what regret is. It does seem far better to accept that which we cannot change. Though it is often not what we desire to hear, it is the truth. Perhaps this is the least meaningful conclusion one can come to, but unhappiness must be accepted. Unhappiness must exist and we will all inevitably experience it. There is no avoiding, no fixing, no changing. We must accept that there are aspects of human life that are daunting and challenging. However, unhappiness cannot solely exist on its own. If you are capable of feeling your own unhappiness, then you have experienced happiness. Therefore, human existence is not solely tragic. Unhappiness begins and ends with the individual.
While this may seem like a gimmick, and- yes- I will admit this does reek of cliche', I have realized that my life had been fairly unexamined. Rarely have I questioned myself, or any part of who I am. Perhaps this self-concern is a bit too egotistical, but I believe it is necessary to be conceited at times. So, this is what I am proposing to myself:
I will take the next year to discover three things. These include finding myself, my truth, and my happiness. While I know these are abstract and difficult concepts, it is my hope that I can, by the time I graduate next year, have better answers. Because, quite truthfully, I cannot understand any of those concepts at the moment. I shall let this forthcoming year take me where it may.
My new mantra:
Love that which is indolent. Confront that which is daunting. Hope for that which is impossible.
I am not a bad person. No, a bad person would do bad things- terrible things even. I am just a person. Neither bad nor good. Outside of the guilt and shame most humans feels. If anything, I am better than most people. I saw what I wanted and took it. There is no shame in being pragmatic. Before, I was just like any other, hopelessly fooled by society. Bound in chains like some circus animal, performing menial tricks for sustenance. No, the true life is outside of this. It was outside of my job at a shoe store; outside of my empty apartment; outside of my virtual life. True life is recognizing one's desires and acting upon them. What is more real than a growling stomach when you want food? What is more real than the way your eyes glisten when something so wonderfully perfect is placed in front of you? Nothing. Everything is desire. I realized that December 21st, 2005. I was in Aisle 4 of the grocery store, the bread aisle. Down the way, she stood reading the labels, searching for something. She was Nabokov's princess and I her most humble servant. Young and nubile. Too young, too nubile; like a delicious drug overdose that culminates in vomiting. My eyes traced down her tiny fingers. My entire body was shaking, an epileptic pervert. And there it was- the perfect realization that truth was in desire- was in my loins. She smiled at me, like all polite girls do. She went back to her mother. Such a smart girl to stay away from such a rational man. I would have swallowed you whole. It was the beginnings of my re-birth. Christened in the sweet flowers of innocence, like a savior. Blood replaced by something a little more magnificent. I was still naïve that day; so full of self-control. Self-control is the enemy of human nature. If you want something, get it. Why deny what is real? Why perpetuate that which is not human? You do not want happiness if you decide to control. Hedonism is the way of reality, my dear. Even moreso, if you do not go after what you want, someone like me will come along and snatch it up. It is only being rational. Grocery stores are the perfect setting. Everyone is too concerned with everybody else to worry themselves with me. 13. That's the number I always look for. 13 and suddenly you're mature enough to go to another aisle by yourself. All alone. I can't be blamed for 13. They're old enough to know better by now. They know not to talk to strangers, scream when they're grabbed. But, 13 is stupid. For all of its stupidity, 13 is a beautiful time. So desperate to be women, they dress like French whores. I can sniff out 13; the smell of Kotex ® and watermelon lip gloss. As soon as I'm on the scent, I am real. I walk by them ever so gently, say the things they are starved to hear. 13, you are beautiful. 13, I find you attractive. 13, you are sexually appealing. That is what makes 13 so stupid. I grin like a Cheshire Cat and I feel ever so pleased. We leave together and no one suspects a thing. I am a father taking his daughter grocery shopping. No one even knows they're gone until the food is sitting in plastic bags. We drive off and I can feel 13's anxiety radiate off of the dashboard. Like a young child getting burned by a flame, 13 has made a dangerous realization. I smile at her and give her morbid assurances. I can already taste blood and feel its stickiness on my skin like maple syrup. 13 cries, all she wants is to go home. So full of the desire to live and be safe. Too bad, darling, you should know my wants and needs come first. You hold your breath for one minute and you gasp for air. Hold it in for a lifetime and you've never truly lived. But once your lungs fill for the first time, it is impossible to be anaerobic. Such a survivalist I am. And, at the heart of all that is real, is desire. Does it make sense to force ourselves to suffer for the sake of others? Certainly not. I am far more important to myself than you. I am not a monster for following my desires. You make me one because you seek to martyr yourselves to the gods of self-control and unhappiness. I am merely being rational- does that make me a bad person?
"God is not needed to create guilt or to punish. Our fellow men suffice, aided by ourselves."
Remember Prof. Jacob's class? That's how the conversation would start Ten year reunions were such an awkward time Enough time for you to grow up Not enough time to be anything worthwhile An evening full of sweaty palms and trifling alms There was forced laughter and hidden grimacing Of course, there were the thousands of happy, married couples Just dying to tell you the secrets of a happy life There were the jaded single-tons Who proudly showed off their barren fingers, their barren lives There were the people who had found their true happiness And those that weren't sure why they were even there There would be the catch-up and the parting of ways At least for another five years Late night hook-ups, drunkenly forgotten The impending hangover, vomit already churning There would be the secret desires to go back to it all When $5 could buy a pizza and a couple beers When sex was the dirty little secret When graffiti wasn't "Urban Expressionism" But that's the funny thing You waited all your life to grow up And suddenly it's too scary And you'd give anything to go back
It's a funny little algorithm, nearly impossible to solve It's a trust issue that I have yet to get over… I promise I'm working on it… maybe It's the lady on the messaging machine, her voice is soothing It's that late night text, 3:15 AM vibrations wake me up It's a comfy white car, with a dirty little secret
He felt a hard bone bounce against his shoulder Subway pushing was his favorite form of human contact She quietly apologized for getting in the way He looked at her as her eyes pleaded for forgiveness It was her, it was her. She had new freckles on her face Possibly from a series of summer vacations Her stomach had expanded just a little Enough to know that she could no longer fit in her size 0 Lines speckling the area around her eyes Of course, he had aged in these past ten years too His hair was a little thinner than he would like His face starting the aging process Still wearing the jeans he had when they had met He looked down at her left hand Still no ring… Or maybe a removed ring His hand was bare too LAST STOP OF THE LINE Both of them exited the train Somehow, despite the raucous, they stayed together They followed each other Afraid to admit they wanted to be together He wondered if this was even the stop she intended to get off at She clutched at her pocketbook as she hurried to follow THE DEATH TRAP A depressing name for a depressing bar She sat four stools down from him He had a whiskey on the rocks She had a gin & tonic They sipped slowly, both counting down to the first move Surprisingly, she was the one to make it She made small-talk while they sipped on their drinks It was only a matter of time… They were at his place He wondered if she even lived in this town at all Her mouth tasted like lost dreams and peppermint Her blue sweater falling to the ground Trampled by stumbling feet I FEEL IT ALL His favorite song was playing on the radio Ravishment set to mild indie music Being with her was like being with a ghost She wasn't complete anymore She was needy, self-conscious He was domineering and unsure It was just like college Except they both hated themselves 8:45 AM BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP She rolls over and gets out of bed He turns over in the bed… fast asleep She looks into his closet and steals one of his favorite shirts Puts it on with the rest of her clothes And leaves He wakes up alone and wonders… Was it just a dream?
BLOGGING INSPIRED BY "2016" BY AUNT MARTHA http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWcJb4iQg6g&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL
Cigarette in hand, beer on the desk He's watching her toss and turn in her sleep Insomnia was always his style, ever since he came to the 540 He rarely sucks on his cig, just watches smoke dance around He can hear her whimper in her sleep, like a lost child Feist playing just loud enough to be conspicuous The plane ticket is still in his bag Drive off to the airport and not have to know… Know what happens next, know how it ends He almost starts to pack, but he takes another sip She's his favorite show to watch in the evening Still smelling like sex and homemade perfume He feels a little older watching her An adult who subsists in a hotel room with a younger woman Her short red dress lying on the floor, begging to get wrinkled Maybe she'll be the girl he sees in five years When they awkwardly catch up in a bar He won't have grown up, but she'll have her life all together They'll reminisce, have a one-night stand And she'll leave a blue sweater that he'll keep for no real reason A memory that is forgotten A deep drag on the cigarette, followed by a gulp of beer He pulls a blanket around his shoulders and watches her sleep
BLOGGING INSPIRED BY "NEIGHBOR SONG" BY AUNT MARTHA
If I had any use for you, I would speak more than the past. I would speak in tongues that existed before that ludicrous tower (of Babel) had been built. Perhaps I would prophesize your stock portfolio and tell you about your future debts. But, you are nobody to me. Are you somebody to somebody? Are you headed to a home that reeks of potpourri and domestic ennui? I'm not. The life of a psychic is ever so banal. Knowing everything does not mean you understand it all. You could serve a purpose. You could be my lover. Funny thing- that word. Lover implies that you would love me. You look more like a screw-er. You could be that person I go to mid-day, meeting in the corporate parking lot. Fifteen minutes in the back seat and I suddenly feel like a woman again. We would leave, pretending nothing happened, and I secretly wonder about you- grow fond of you. Yet, this secret affair is walking down 6th Avenue while I walk down W 56th Street. My ESP tells me I'll see you walking down the street tomorrow. I'll touch my hand to my cheeks while you check the time on your knock-off watch. You'll nod and I'll feel so blessed.
War and Peace. Laudable bullshit, yo. Rape the women, congratulate the drugs. Such a so-so existence. Turn on the TV and drool incessantly. Play the piano. Beat in the keys. Flats and sharp knifes, black and white. Tasty snack cakes, crumbs dribble off a double chin. Log on, tune in. Pretend you have a life. Bump and grind like a whore, but you're still daddy's little girl. Does this come in my size? Hell, no. Your life is amockumentary, and it's low-budget. Just a click of a mouse away. It can be all your's. It smells like death and candy, yummy combination. Put it on shuffle because you don't know what you want. I want a double mochachino with whipped cream, tall. Brand-name or go to hell. Did you hear stereotypical celebrity had an affair with an anonymous hottie? STDs are good for the soul. Thank, God for Penicillin. Self-conscious bravado. Importance without anything to say. Insert the laugh track because the silence is deafening- so deafening. Repeat incessantly.
When I sat on that street corner and begged for your spare change, I swear you loved me. I looked like the Mona Lisa; six months pregnant and full of venereal disease. My nubile body was covered in lice and affluence. My stomach ached for hunger, but was distended by child. I planned on naming my daughter Beatitude because I had seen the name in a hotel room Bible before. The Bible is a nice book. I wish it had pictures. You were like a small child that I wanted to mother.
You looked like a cat I had when I was a kid. It was run over by a truck. Maybe it was the amphetamines rushing through my blood, but I thought you had a tail. You threw exactly one dollar in my purse. It was green and smelt like cheese. Serial Number: EB04419763C I almost wanted to eat it. It could have tasted like you. But, I put it in my pocket because I didn't think money would taste that good anyways.
You looked like addiction. So sickly, so repressed. I used to be addicted to things, like Pepsi and TV award shows. I quit cold turkey. I think about them all the time. I like thinking about them. I pretend I have a home and a really comfy couch to sit on. Not too nice. No, I'm not greedy. Just nice enough for me. There are people all around me, laughing. You're there. We keep each other warm. That would be nice. You would be nice, I think. That's normal. Like it should be. Like it should be.
You looked like the kind of guy that goes to church. I used to go to church. I stopped going when the statue of Jesus wouldn't stop yelling at me. "Satan, Satan, Satan…" That's all he would say. You think someone so interesting would have more to say. Maybe he was like me. Not a talker, just a screamer. The others didn't like me being there. I guess his yells interrupted everybody else. It's a shame, I really did like church.
You looked like a Rubik's cube I found in the trash the other day. It was boxy and colorful just like you. I thought it was treasure when I saw it. You look valuable. Can I twist your limbs until you are solved? When you look like a pretzel is when you are most beautiful.
I followed you home. Because I'm a dog. At least, that's what they call me. Maybe if I lick your face and howl I can come in. You called the cops and I cried. Cops make me scared because they are really robots on the inside. They took me away, to the dog pound.
I sat next to a hooker and she was really friendly. She gave me a piece of gum and wasn't even angry about sitting next to me. Could she be my best friend? The robots came back in and grabbed me. They didn't know my name. I don't know my name. They put me in the robot car. And we drove in circles. I know we couldn't have gone anywhere.
They made magic. Put me in another building. I had to talk to a man with a cotton candy beard. Would he like me to nibble on his beard? I think so. He said funny words, like a different language. Sckizfrynea. Sckizfrynea. Sckizfrynea. That word makes me giggle. Uhndieagnoosed.
He saw her. It was in the middle of winter, strange time for him to go to the park. But she was there, digging her ratty shoes into the frozen dirt. He watched her as she grew impatient for some reason. Her straw-colored hair began to fall loose from its bun. He wanted to brush that rogue hair behind her tiny ears. As he watched from a faraway park bench, his fingers began to freeze to the cheap wood. A man finally came for the young woman. He was dressed in dirty clothes, as if they had been worn for several days. They fought in the quiet park. Their yells echoed against the barren trees. He threw something at her and walked away. She cried, but seemed relieved. The scene was quite an eyesore for the man, but he continued to watch. Slowly, he walked towards her. He felt like a little child, watching its mother display uncharacteristic humanity. She noticed him almost immediately. She was less pretty up close, but still pleasing. As she regarded each inch of his face, her eyes dilated and contracted. "Buzz off," she yelled. She picked up her bag and darted off to an underpass. He watches. He thinks he's in love. He wants to call the cops. He follows into the underpass, the cliche' hangout for murderous hobos. He was called to her siren's song. "Where I want to be is where she'll be."
It is in these moments that she wishes the eyes could turn away, and, upon casting their gaze elsewhere, forget. Once the eyes had unseen, she would be happy yet again. The placations she had dedicated her life to would be forgotten and the scars of her maladjustment would evaporate. The eyes would be welcome once more when she no longer felt the sting of memories. To be seen as a newborn would be wonderful in her opinion. To be pure and contented. To be sedate and introverted. Yet the eyes do not turn away, nor do they blink. And as she looks quizzically past, she can only see dilated pupils. Her folly of a dream can only survive as a whispered prayer.
Blogging inspired by "Fresh Pair of Eyes," by Brooke Waggoner
As skin grazed concrete, she could feel a small wound grow. As blood began to shiver out of the broken capillaries, she held back tears of pain. She silently wished for someone to come help her, or at least for her friends to look away. Her fingers were now stained red by the wound, a testament to her misfortune. Tears dripped down into the new cut, creating a stinging sensation that drove her crazy. As she brought herself to her feet, she could feel embarrassment seeping through her. They laughed at her. She turned around and walked away briskly, so that no one would notice her flaming cheeks. Even though she walks more quickly, she walks more cautiously; every step is taken with utmost care.
It's funny that when we first fall, our steps are never the same again. We are reminded of our fallibility, our mortality. Then, once we have picked ourselves back up, we are ever so careful to avoid the same fate. Yet, we continue to fall. And each time we do, we feel like the same four year old children we all once were. We still get up, though.
The question is not whether we fall. It is how will we get back up? No matter what, we will always fall again- caution is not necessary. We should not be afraid of each new step, but inviting of the opportunity.
She had on a floral-printed dress that she had bought on-sale the previous day. It almost fit her perfectly, but the fabric cinched around her hips. But, the tightness was almost sensual in nature, had she not covered her body in a loose coat. Her lipstick was the shame shade as an overly ripe peach; she wore it well. He had that incredulousness about him that all young men hope to encapsulate. His hair had been lackadaisically slicked down with cheap hair gel. He wasn't particularly interested in anything other than the things directly in his line of sight. But, his soft voice made him endearing to all who met him. As they walked towards the decrepit convenience store, their hands clasped awkwardly. Palms sweating against each other as they try to synchronize their steps. She tries not to pay attention to him, but every so often she glances towards his figure. He has to fake his interest towards her, but he doesn't mind. She's pretty enough for now. And he's happy enough. For now.
She looked into a pair of eyes that seemed to glow out of emptiness. The eyes traced over her tiny pupils and past her overdone eyelashes. She felt naked under their presence- weak and insecure. They somehow knew her entire being without ever inquiring a single thing. It made her embarrassed to know that all of her precious secrets were so readily available. This stranger could see all. It was one of those moments that one easily warps in one's memory. Of course, at the time, it was incredibly awkward and disconcerting. But, as time grew, so did the beauty of this trivial memory. Suddenly, inelegant figures are transformed by longing sentimentality. All she can remember are the beatific eyes that understood her like no other.
As she quietly sits in her little corner of the coffee shop, she can feel a subtle pair of eyes traipsing towards her. So, hoping to remain inconspicuous, she nonchalantly traces her fingers over the rim of her coffee cup. Yet, she can still feel the unknown eyes creeping ever closer. She doesn't dare look up out of her own self--conscious tendencies. Those eyes trace over the lacey dress that has attached itself to summery skin. She wonders if she should look up and acknowledge this presence that seems so intent on acknowledging her. But, she can only blush into her used copy of "The Wasteland" and wonder. Eyes are still delicately flowing throughout her small corner, not even building a false pretense of looking out a window. Perhaps it was the youthfulness of summer that made her bold, or perhaps curiosity had gotten the better of her- she looked up rather abruptly. Her sudden movement disconcerted the poor pair of eyes as they darted across the room. She recklessly peered at deep blue pools until her vision became blurred. Now it was his turn to feel the peculiarism of attention.
Simple was something she was when she had no desire to be overly obsequious. She could be complicated if she wanted to, but she often gave up for fear of being understood. She doubted whether or not people really cared beyond the facade. Her clothes reeked of a cologne that was not her own, yet nobody else's. Her mascara was often smudged, not because she had been crying, but because her eye itched. She often wondered if there was anything more than her outward appearance. She didn't have anything else to show, but people expected her to be so much more. Maybe she had left herself somewhere along the way and she hadn't even noticed it was gone. Sometimes she pretended that she was actually much more interesting than she really was. Sometimes she pretended that she was in a monotone world. Yet, she was stuck in a limbo. If she weren't so used to mediocre, she would probably be upset.
Loneliness was a peculiar feeling for a girl who had oft known its bitter brushes. No matter how many times she was left without, it still felt new. She didn't know whether to laugh at the irony or to cry at the heart-ache. All she could do was wonder... What it was to make those she cared for walk away just as unceremoniously as they had come. Whether she could ever trust them again with something so precious. Perhaps the comfort she had known will never be so again, replaced by something new and unfortunate. A treacherous crossroad that she was trapped in.
Sometimes the only thing to adequately describe life is an optimistic piano piece. Though there are hints of sad sentimentality in the transient chords, there is a simplistic happiness all around. An innocence that can only be described as nimble fingers skip across cold keys is what this moment is. As I look out into the slushy and ice-covered streets, I hear a phantom piano. The flickering of the traffic lights coordinating with the tempo of the unknown but deeply familiar song. I can only sing along as I stand there and smile.
She was in that bed, as frail as a glass figurine. Her eyes unfocused, yet transfixed upon something that could not be seen. Stronger than a thousand men. Weaker than the mouse that scampered across the floor. Unknown to a world that moved too fast for her. Yet, cherished in the world that was her own. A warm hand that held my own as if it were a life-line. As it pulled away, it felt as my own hand had left too. Thousands of other hearts beating. But mine beating just for her.
How foolish young love is. Like an ignorant child, it wanders around aimlessly, unaware of the dangers of the Real World. And we, the negligent parents, let it. Perhaps it is always fun to see where this young child rushes to, Mindless of all of those crude laws that govern the wise. And, sometimes, this child sees greater things than most of the world can know. Yet, there are times when this child gets lost along the way. Hurt and confused it wanders to the closest haven. And, we, the parents are just as broken. For all the terror, humiliation, and innocence spent upon this forgotten child. There is something rather special caught in the crossfires. Like a star in a moonless sky, it radiates it dim light in a manner befitting a long lost runaway.
Sometimes the only thing to adequately describe life is an optimistic piano piece. Though there are hints of sad sentimentality in the transient chords, there is a simplistic happiness all around. An innocence that can only be described as nimble fingers skip across cold keys is what this moment is. As I look out into the slushy and ice-covered streets, I hear a phantom piano. The flickering of the traffic lights coordinating with the tempo of the unknown but deeply familiar song. I can only sing along as I stand there and smile.
Dearest Darling, You see, your letters are the only thing I look forward to anymore. I am not sure if you feel the same way, but I hope you do. I ask that you meet me once more before Saturday, just so that I can see you again. If you can't, I probably won't be happy. I do want to see you, so don't make it so difficult. You know, sweetheart, I think I do love you. I may even keep on loving you until I get too old to know any better. And, even though you yell at me like you're my mother, I think you're still pretty special. That's how I know I'm in love; because I am out of my damn mind. Love, R. S.
If only she could have been Tom Sawyer, mischievously looking down upon them from the rafters. If only she could have taken up her friend on that offer for a lunch date. If only she could have played cards with her Grandma like she always promised. If only she could have asked that boy out like she said she would. Yet, the poignant "if only"s only exist to fill the space she used to take up. Echoes of laughter mingle with newborn sobs until they become indistinguishable from each other.
A smile that is so wonderfully familiar greets you in the morning as if it were a sunrise. A lilting voice greets you with a great calm buried in the syllables. Ice cold feet bury into your calves much to your joyful chagrin. Peaceful sighs illuminate the otherwise silent room. A happiness oft dreamed about by the great Romanticists sitting right next to you.
An imminence to the end. As the bottle begins to empty, so do the pent up emotions. A cathartic evening as a finale. Nothing remaining to the once happy portrait that had been so carefully maintained. Staring across the table is a set of eyes, unfamiliar, yet reminiscent of a past life. Uneasiness and insecurity filter throughout the claustrophobic room. A lit cigarette providing the only useful light in the room; a ring glinting ironically in its glowing embers.
His jacket seemingly fell off of his shoulders onto the floor. He looked like a small animal: beaten, downtrodden, and frantic. His doleful eyes looked dim in the fluorescent lighting. A poetic pity showered upon him like a summer rain. Nothing could be done except to hold him- to show him that he was still deserving of love. He had been broken by a life that was not exceptionally difficult. Yet, he was still scared like the little boy he once was.
The wind blows through hair that was so carefully constructed, seeming to tear away at its unnatural rigidity. Sunglasses protect the eyes that have seen far too much, yet they do not shield from seeing more. As the summer air gusts through the open window into the car, the humidity becomes almost crippling. But, she needs this fresh air more than anything else. After the oppression her lungs have faced, she needs to free them. There is nothing but countryside ahead, a stark contrast to the Draconian architecture that was her life. Though she finds this retreat banal and overly sentimental, a deep childish yearning burns in the pit of her stomach. A quiet and impatient yearning for a cure to the human condition.
For that one moment in time I can almost feel the world spinning on its axis. Gravity is weighing upon me carefully. And, yet, I still can see everything around me crystal-clear. You are ten feet away, standing like a young child who has yet to learn how to hold his head high. There is the dim fluorescent light above us and it highlights each imperfection with menacing exactness. We each stand, facing each other, unsure of what the repercussions would be if we moved closer. My lip is bleeding from me biting it so; the blood tastes like your infamous spaghetti sauce. The pain eases away as it always does. I turn around as the scab begins to form, marring my feminine appearance.
Julianne was constantly discontent. If ennui was a disease, there was no cure for Julianne. Life often felt muted for the woman. She had her husband, she had her family, but they never seemed to truly fulfill her. So, each day, when Julianne would go to her duties as a house-wife she dreamt of something to take her away. For fifteen years she waited for that something to come and save her. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 6:30 AM I awake to the sound of an alarm clock. My ears feel like they have been raped by this sinister machine. Despite my wish to stay in the warm comforts of my bed, I force myself to get up. I look out the window and see that it is still pitch black. I remember that it is the middle of winter and I give a shiver. As I tiptoe to the bathroom, I can hear one of my children talking in his sleep. 6:42 AM The water in the shower is scalding hot. There is something soothing about burning my flesh; perhaps you could even call it sadistic. My skin reddens to the shade of a tomato while I busy myself with shampooing. Steam is building up on the walls until tiny drops of water roll down on gravity's accord. While I am in this room I almost forget about the fact that I have a family to speak of. In here, I am still single, still twenty-five, and still in possession of a life. If it were up to me, I would just live in this bathroom. 6:57 AM A shirt falls down around my shoulders. I feel uncomfortable in this shirt, but I put it on anyways. It makes me look frumpy- just like the mother I am. But, it is appropriate for my life. I am a mother, I guess I should look like it. I can hear my husband just coming in from work. I can already tell his night shift did not go well by the slamming of the front door. It is too early for him to pull this shit, but I don't say anything. 7:05 AM "Wake up, honey," I say to my youngest child, the seven year-old Braxton. I watch him toss and turn in his head, pretending not to hear me. But, after persistent rousing on my part, he finally sits up in his bed. I kiss his forehead and move on to the next child. My middle child, Abigail, has always been the hardest to rouse. Since she has entered her teenage years (she turned thirteen two months ago), she has become a total bitch. That's right- I just called my own daughter a bitch. "Abigail," I raise my voice," get up!" Abigail screams into her pillow and thrashes in the bed. We both know she's awake, so she gets out of bed and runs to the bathroom. "Please don't take too long," I call out to her. "Your brothers have to use the bathroom too." She makes no acknowledgement of me and I know she won't heed my warning. 7:45 AM We are all at the breakfast table, eating our various cereals and pretending to have family time. Mostly, everyone stays quiet, not wanting to go out on a limb and say something. My oldest, seventeen year-old Carter, texts while shoveling food into his mouth. "I wish you wouldn't do that at the table, Carter." I try to be firm with him. "Mom," he pleads like a child," I'm talking to someone important." "The conversation can wait until this evening. After school. After dinner. After chores." Carter doesn't listen to me. No one in this house listens to me. 7:52 AM I watch the school bus drive down the road, my children safely on board. And suddenly, I feel alone in this house. Of course, my husband is sleeping in our bed, but it is horribly lonely. I suppose I could do things that any house wife should do: garden, shop, maybe even bake. Yet, I have no desire to do these things. 7:55 AM I am in the living room, lifting up the seat cushion of the couch. Under it is a brochure that I have kept hidden for the past three years. It is obviously worn and very delicate under my touch. I hold it close to me, as if we are long lost lovers. The glossiness of the pages has faded, but the smiles plastered on each panel are still there. Across the front page it says, "Learn. Live. Prosper. All at New Haven State College." I am holding my secret dream in my hand. I have always wanted to go to college. But, I met Pete and married right out of high school. And motherhood permanently prevented be from reaching for my dream. 8:31 AM The hum of the laundry machine lulls me into a distant reverie. I am no longer a discontented house-wife. I am in a classroom, learning about the greats of American literature. I can smell the mustiness of the old college building; feel the wooden desks underneath my hands; and hear the scratching of pencil on paper. I feel oddly at peace, like the world is- "Julianne," Pete screamed from the hallway," call the plumber. The toilet is acting up." I feel so uncomfortable now, having been jarred from my fantasy land. It takes me a few moments to get my bearings, but I am able to get off of the couch. I walk slowly to my husband. Pete used to be a handsome man, back in high school. His once dark hair was now thinning at the temples and a peculiar roundness was forming at his mid-section. He looked like any father approaching middle age. And, like all dads, he was slowly losing his dignity. "What is it?" I ask, unafraid of being curt. "One of the damn kids tried to flush something down the toilet and the whole fucking thing is backed up." He stammered all in one breath. "They're all getting punished." "Calm down, Pete. I'll call the plumber and get it taken care of. You need to get back to bed." 8:34 AM I am thumbing through the phone book. It has been warped by water damage and many of the pages were missing. I am beyond listless. I put down the phone book quietly, not wanting Pete to hear me. The keys to the family car are sitting on the table, just waiting for me to grab them. So, I heed their calls and hold them in my hand. It is time for me to get out of here. 9:57 AM The radio is playing soft rock tunes as I am going down the interstate. There are no annoying ringtones from my cell phone to worry about; I left it on the table. I am only twenty minutes from New Haven. My pulse is beating rapidly because I am so excited. My home seems like a world away, like a faintly remembered dream. It is funny how a dream suddenly becomes reality and a reality becomes a dream. I can feel the muscles in my face tighten because I have been smiling ever since I pulled out of my driveway. 10:22 AMThe streets are lined with trees- old oaks that seem to give the place an even more intellectual air. There are large brick buildings covered green moss. For all of my previous excitement, I feel suddenly nervous. Yet, I get out of my parked car and walk to the closest brick building. There are students walking across the campus; they are all much younger than I remember. They walk around like they don't care about anything and I can't help but envy them. I feel self-conscious here. I am an old woman next to them; I would never fit in with these people. I am a mother, not a co-ed. 11:00 AM I file into a classroom with a group of other students. They regard me rather warily, but don't say a word. I sit in the back corner, trying not to draw attention to myself. Thankfully, this is a larger class, so I am not noticeable. I am starting to feel more at ease here, just like in my dreams. It feels right. The professor walks in and she is just like any professor I had ever imagined. She is slightly older, her hair messy, and glasses askew. Her presence is undeniable when she starts to speak. I can do nothing but listen to her talk about Freudian concepts. 12:30 PM The class is finally over and students are filing out. Though I would like to stay in this room and hear more, I know that I have to leave. With a stone in my heart, I walk out of the classroom. I know the professor noticed my presence, but I am glad she chose not to say anything. Unsure of what to do next, I walk outside. The sun is hidden behind cottony clouds and snow has covered the dead grass. It is bleak, yet I don't mind it. However, the immediate chill of the day forces me to seek out my car. 12:42 PM I have been sitting in my car for the past five minutes thinking. I guess that I have finally fulfilled the fantasy, so there is nothing to dream about anymore. I want to cry, but I don't want to muster the tears. I know better than to nurse the foolish hope that this could be my future. No, I can't come back here ever again. I am obligated to my family; I can't leave them even to do something I want. If I kept coming back, I would only see how much of my life I have given away. So, here I am: sitting in a car in a college parking lot. I don't belong here and I never will. I turn the car on and put it in drive. 2:50 PM I finally pull into the driveway. From the outside, my house looks so foreign to me. Is this really where I live? I don't remember it looking so plain, like a jail cell. Maybe I never noticed, or maybe I always did. I am loathe to get out of the car, because it means that my day is finally over. In fact, I seriously consider never getting out and just driving back to New Haven. 3:12 PM "God dammit, Julianne," Pete yells into my face. "Where the hell did you go? You didn't even bother to tell me. You didn't even bring your cell phone. What the hell were you thinking? I can't even tell you how much I was worried you were gone. This was the most selfish thing you've ever done." Pete has been yelling like this for some time now. He doesn't even care that our children are watching this all happen. I merely look back at him blankly. It is not his business to know my dreams. They are the only thing I have kept to myself. "Well, what the hell do you have to say for yourself?" Pete finally finishes. "I went for a drive." I snap back, making it obvious that I am giving him no further information. Pete shrugs his shoulders and tramps back into the bedroom. The kids are staring at me with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. "Who wants meatloaf for dinner?" I ask. 10:45 PM Pete and I are getting ready for bed. He seems so unsure about himself at this moment. I know that, in his head, he is wondering where he will sleep tonight. It is obvious he wants to stay in our bed, but he is sure that he will be stuck on the couch for the night. He walks back into our bedroom and stands awkwardly in the door-frame. I motion for him to come to bed. He happily climbs in. It is uncomfortable in this bed. We are afraid to touch each other. Even though I don't want him in this bed, I know that I cannot deny Pete his place. So, we squirm as we try to make this situation somehow bearable. 11:57 PM "Are you seeing someone else?" Pete finally asks. I can tell it took a great deal of courage for him to ask that. It is obvious that he wants to stay oblivious, but he can't help but to ask. His voice trembles with sobs, and it hurts me a little. The room is absolutely silent and I can feel the tension build. I don't want to answer, I don't want to say anything. So, I roll over, and face the wall. I can hear him sob a little harder now. I may have lust, darling, but it is not for flesh.
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