Friday, May 19, 2006

It's Just How It Goes.

Months ago during a conversation about being in love, I was asked how many times it had happened, replied "2 to 4" and then laughed, realizing it sounded like a snow forecast. It's not that I'm indecisive, I'm just not sure how can you possibly know. Even if you are certain at the time, even if the emotions feel so strong that it seems like they surely must be real, facts found in textbooks. Memories are like icebergs, so slow that you don't notice they're constantly moving and shifting and changing, that maybe one day they'll convince you of just the opposite of what you thought you believed.

Somehow I was aware of this when I was 14 and in love with a boy that I never even spoke to. I made myself promise that when I got older I would never not let him count, would never try to dismiss it as a thing of youth or inexperience because surely the pain of it was real enough, and what's the point of scars if you can't hold onto the story of how you got them?

Saturday, May 6, 2006


So progress isn't always linear.

This heart-in-my-throat shtick isn't working.

I don't want to keep feeling upset about something I don't have any control over.

I could seriously fucking use a hug.

I'm doing the best that I can.

Thursday, May 4, 2006

Closed Book. It's All Too Late, For Now.

It's a strange feeling when you think you're just going to see a movie, but you end up paying no attention to it and focusing on your life. You squirm uncomfortably in your seat, wondering if he is feeling the same way or feeling anything at all. By the time the credits roll, you feel like collapsing, crying, and you're not even sure if it's really all that sad, or if you're just feeling extra sorry for yourself.

Was any of it ever real?

Oh, I know just what you mean.

And then I tell myself the obvious, the logic that does absolutely no good at all: Do not pick at the wounds, they'll turn into scars. Do not let yourself go. Do not let the silence, get into your blood stream, pull you away from people, other possibilities. This replays in my head like one of those recordings you hear in airports that instructs you not to accept gifts from strangers and not to stray too far from your luggage. The words are practical but entirely useless.

Eyes cloudy, the storm is here.

I don't want to be driven away.

Open the book.