Well, every thing is a metaphor for something, right? And you can make one for anything...

New writing soon.


Happy New Year.

Idea.

I feel like I'm a "writer" simply because I can't quiet the voices in my head.

Because I can't shut the fuck up.

Weird thought, right?

Goldfish

It's an unspeakable feeling that comes from the depths. We can't articulate it any other way than the simplest of words and we know those won't suffice.

This goes beyond the body yearning for another one to be close.
Beyond worry or doubt or fear.
Like a steady beat, it rings true all the time.
Even after an angry word or a step in the wrong direction.

Every time I tell you, I feel like you immediately forget
and you then walk all over me
oblivious to every step.

My dear, you could not ruin me if you tried. (Even tears dry up.)

But for now, I'll tell you the simple delusional truth:

I love you and there's nothing I can do about it.

Glory

It seems that love is an overly abused word these days.
The phrase "I love you" could mean, "I really appreciate this" or "You make me happy" for whatever reason. I love you for doing this, I love you when you do that, this thing that you do makes me realize that I adore you...so on and so forth.


I am beginning to overflow. I love you in so many ways and for so many reasons that I can't possibly name them all. I can't just love you because I appreciate your actions, or even because you have hidden talents that I get to see--these are things that make me enjoy you, like a good meal or a nice day. I love you and I can't figure out how or why and I really don't want to at all. I don't want to feel I need to explain that to anyone, but sometimes I do.

Under dark clouds, even here in this stormy wreckage I can love you. I won't lie, there is a struggle to see what I mean by it and even where I stand. But in the end, I don't lose a thing here. The winds are going to blow and I like stinging rain just as much as any other person, but I'll bear it for the sake of reaching the eye of this hurricane.
Two separate storm systems, two independent galaxies dancing in, around, with one another. In your lightning, you will hear my thunder and I cannot keep the volume turned down any longer. I want to fight you. I want to throttle you awake and shout until your space shatters. Even in this bleak vacuum, I feel you shine brighter than any full moon.

Love is not about sharing someone's sorrow or rescuing them. Or it may be to a degree, but the story doesn't end there. Caring that much about a person doesn't give you an excuse to make someone else responsible for making you feel better, that's still your own job. Being cared for does give you the right to not worry about feeling bad. Just that can be comfort enough.

What am I saying? I love you, yeah (yeah yeah..) and I know that doesn't put a magical band aid on anything. It doesn't for me, and I don't see how it would. I shouldn't be writing this in hopes you'll read it or even in lieu of talking to you. What I'm saying is, 1-I am not done with this topic, and I'll probably harp on it until I feel better, 2-I'm going to grow a pair and actually talk to you about this, 3-I'm terrified too, 4-you already know all of this, 5- *anxiety*

Truth.
Fact.
Non-fiction.
I love you.
andican'tgetyououtofmyheadandiwantyoutolovemetooandiamembarrassedforyouinwritingthisandiwanttotakeyoueverywhereandshowyoueverythingandiwantyoutoseetoseetoseetoseewellallofme
and that may be the most terrifying thought of all.

ps-everytime i dream of you i hear the same song. :x
"This war is crazy, I won't let you down..."

Reflection

He is my Ganesh
And together we are painting the walls blue.
The color of clarity.
Instead of knocking down the walls entirely,
but still recreating the sky no one else can see.
This is about the brevity of sainthood,
or the fear of happiness.
Because the questions we're asking aren't:
"What could you lose?"
or "what will you gain?"
But more of a quiet: "What could you possibly be missing?"
I need not so much a smile
as I need a gentle nod.
Just enough reassurance to move forward
without the push of a stroked ego.

A Study of Surrealism

I want to blame the exhaustion, but the truth of the matter is that I'm crying like a child because I'll miss you and everything is going to fall apart.

I've missed people before. The way that a finger misses the weight of a gaudy ring by keeping a phantom buzz on the skin.
But I'm missing you in a different way. The way my grandmother's boyfriend misses the use of his arms. You don't realize how absolutely necessary your muscles are until you need to do something simple like scratch your nose.

My second confession is that missing you wouldn't be nearly as bad if it weren't clear to me how much everyone else that I already long for will miss you too. It makes me want to turn off the television I've been watching in my head. It just broadcasts reruns of emotions trying to rip apart the screen. Everyone else's feelings are projected onto me and all of it adds up to missing someone I barely know, crying until tears can't come anymore, and feeling a fire lit within me that I seem to have forgotten.

If only I could wake myself up from this dream, I feel like I could get others to run alongside me the same way you do.