Shedding Loneliness

A lot of things have changed for me recently. A lot of my views are shifting. My faith is blurry. I used to have a strong position on relationships. I used to live by a lack of trust, hope, and love. Always looking for the worst, and it usually happening. But now, when I crave trust, hope, and love it is returned - even in my weakest, ugliest moments. Even when I don't deserve it. He stays with me, even when I'm lonely and I don't understand why. I went to my first wedding this weekend and all I felt were those three things, mingled in the air, like dandelion seeds fluttering through the wind. And I could catch one at any time. After twenty years, I'll admit I was wrong. It's not that I lived with a lack there of, but I just wasn't experiencing it. I didn't luck out. But, I'm only twenty and maybe the next twenty years will be different. Maybe marriage isn't an unnecessary and confining tradition. Maybe love isn't impossible. Maybe I deserve both. He seems to think so. Now I'm wondering whether my luck is changing. Will my loneliness disappear? I feel it melting away, the thick layers shedding. My distinct, untreatable wounds, which found my beliefs, are healing. Everything is a haze. But for some reason this haze warms me, it feels safer than where I was. Maybe safe isn't impossible either. Maybe he was right. And I was wrong.

Places

Some places aren't just location or scenery. Some places are compiled of moments. One moment you're standing in place, the next moment you remember. I'm there, skipping under the snow-capped trees to the sound of my first recording. I'm there in the Toyota, pinched into place after Dan's accident. (My knee still stings on warmer days). I'm there, in a classroom full of nerds, staring at Robert Frost's impeccable use of literary devices. I'm there, smelling in Isaac's cologne, wrapped into a cocoon of blankets - his eyes greener than before. I'm there in Grade 9 gym, the smell of B.O and vanilla perfume mingle. I'm there as Mom and Jim fight, she screams and covers her bruises. I'm there half-listening to my ex-boyfriend's veganist rant. I'm there when Rachael cries on my lap. My place doesn't exist. I've never known a place as it is, as a place. Each one bares a moment, and they are never wholely good - the moments or the places. My place for now, resides and buzzes in my mind. It moves, hops over walls, breaks through darkness, pieces together ideas, and mends the pieces forever shattered. I don't think it's bad for where I am in life. Nothing is a constant. Each aspect morphs the second I become familiar. What is familiarity when everything draws out a forgotten memory? Will I ever be a part of something secure? For now I have places, every changing places. Maybe I know them better than anyone - through moment after moment. A movie of places, playing in my mind. I know them.

Red and Grey

There's always so much to say, but so many things break. Words make no sense or my mouth doesn't work. Sometimes I forget and sometimes I remember. Sometimes I'm numb and sometimes I hurt. There's never any in between - I feel it all or nothing at all. I'm either bright red, bleeding into my mind, or I'm the floating grey of passing clouds - a subtle storm in hiding. Nobody sees the grey, but they think they see the red. But what I show is purple. I show the tidied version of my inner storm, of the bleeding red. Subdued. Like I learned. But the red is hard to subdue. Sometimes I break and it seeps through. People see glimpses of my red, in my eyes, or mouth, or the way my hands move. But I catch it. I shoot it down, a bleeding bird. Because red belongs to itself. I'm a stop sign, a sunset, a siren, I'm the spark. I light the way, or I cloud the path. People need me or loath me. I'm wanted or hated. I'm alive or dead. What will I be next?

Fever

All along it was there

I had the fever

All along you were here

I breathed my first prayer

The water drifted across my skin

While you held me close

So strong, now you know

My mind can’t think to begin

Not sure what is real

Not sure if I’ll heal

Your hazel eyes, in the light, can only see

From deep within the death

But then you see me

And in the night’s breath

You remind me of forever

Blood and tears flood the floor

How do I do this?

Rationality hisses

My primitive mind roars

We lost our first

A misery that lingers

But you recognize my glimmer

Even at my decaying worst

We’ll push past this chaos

And into our oasis

Your hazel eyes, in the light, can only see

From deep within the death

But then you see me

And in the night’s breath

You remind me of forever

Our bodies intertwined in the thin sheets

You keep your eyes on me

Locked in your grasp

I know this cannot last

Dying is just a cyclical end

It was time to transcend

I promise to never forget

All the fleeting dread

The stained sheets will fade

As did the existence we made

Others

You never know what you have until it's gone. I used to live by this, trying to appreciate everything that came into my life. But, I've realized that people will not reciprocate this. Recently, I read a book on Existentialism. It spoke of Sartre's view on others. How everyone is an "other," they are people which you cannot purely know, as you cannot view their inner thoughts. Essentially, others serve the purpose similar to everyday objects, as all we need to do is react. We walk around a tree the way we walk around a conversation. This made me think of how easy it is to objectify others, to use them for gain. We use people, guided by our reactions. And I think once we realize that people are metaphysically the same as objects to us, it is harder to appreciate them. People become less complex, because we no longer see them as minded-people, but simply a piece in our own minds. (This may seem degrading, but keep reading). If every other person in the world is an other, what makes the people special to us, more important than strangers? They are still objects, right? But familiarity changes everything. And the more you become familiar with something you start take it for granted. Interestingly, when something good touches our lives once, we remember it clearly. But when something good continues to touch our lives, well, it blurs together and we tend to look at the negative. We forget the good. And maybe we forget the good, when we objectify them, because as Sartre says, we cannot prove their are minded creatures. But the people close to us, they are not objects, even though I can't prove their minds. They may bring negatives, but we must remember to appreciate their beauty. There will always be weeds in a garden of flowers. In order to appreciate a relationship, we must neglect the natural instinct to objectify.

Awake

Awakened ache

Decaying innocence

Trembling breaths

Whimpering egos

Chilling wounds

Reminiscing woos

Enraged tears

Sleepless nights

Whispering fears

Swallowing blood

Surging mind

Gnawing times

Dispersing shrapnel

Grasping life

Enchanting questions

Tranquil serendipity

Swelling hopes

Levitating slopes

All I once, I plunge

An Unmistakable Ending

The thing about life is that it ends. Endings are natural, just part of a cycle. A cycle we all experience. But what happens when letting go is harder than we thought? How can we get through endings? And why do they happen? I think that mistakes are part of this cycle. Somehow, somewhere in time, a mistake will happen. The unexpected, sometimes unwanted mistake, leaves us unsure of our next steps. You thought you had everything figured out - emotionally, mentally, physically - and now you just don't know. You don't know what to do. Or how to deal with it. Sometimes you don't even believe it happened. But, mistakes happen. And it's happening. And I don't know what to do. An unmistakable ending happened. It's nice to think that it's a natural occurrence, but I'm still allowed to feel sad. Right? Is it an excuse or a reason for sadness? Is loss as natural as we believe it is? Can death happen to someone without memories? Who knows. But I'm sad and I feel guilty. Guilty because endings are natural, they have to happen. A flower only blooms to wilt. Snow only falls to melt. We are only born to die. Maybe death isn't the loss, maybe it's the life itself. And if there's no memories, maybe there's no life. Maybe there was never a loss to begin with.