Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Even the Small Things

Sometimes it feels like problems are tattoos sunk into my skin, irreversible and uncounterable. Most of all, they're inescapable; they are everywhere I am, and everywhere I will be, waiting, demons in the shadows. Even small tasks go inconceivably wrong. I don't doubt that other people are not so plagued, for who, trailed by these, ambushed by them, would ever leave the shelter of their house?

Anywhere But Here?

I feel like I've lived my whole life on the run, or on the brink of running. When I pack a bag, I pack everything I might need for life in transit. Unsettled; that's me. For no apparent reason, I'm always prepared for leaving, for a quick and easy escape.

Sure, I may have felt the need to escape from my life before, when the weight of existence comes down with crushing force, when I feel like a tiger, or a bird trapped in a cage, pacing back and forth behind bars. But I never noticed it as being so; agitation was something I carried around with me in my back pocket, like the things I carry in my backpack that are probably not necessary to have on a day to day basis. This is the first time I've looked it at with a modicum of self awareness that's made me worry about my mental state. After all, I must admit that I don't have a particularly trying life. Certainly one that I don't have to run from, though it could use some changes. So why the flightyness? What is in me that cannot stand the thought of being settled? Why is it that nowhere truly feels like home - safe and secure and permanent? What perversion plagues me? What monsters knock in my nightmares? And why is it that I can not answer those questions? 

But to some extent, the realisation that I always stand ready to leave has helped bring to light the realisation that many aspects of my life, heretofore empty, are because of that. What relationship - romantic or platonic - can stand when one person always has one foot out the door? And what creativity is fruitful when the mind is pillaging itself? And how can anything once started ever be finished if you're constantly throwing yourself from project to project because it gives the illusion of movement? 

Perhaps, just perhaps, I'm not meant to stay in one place. 

That, or I have not yet found the right place. 

So I'll keep my bag packed and hope. Because illusion or mental illness, somehow here doesn't feel like the right kind of here for me.

Thursday, February 20, 2014


My hands don't shake anymore. Hope still burns as fiercely, more, even, than before, because the things I once thought impossible are tranpiring. Now we're more than just a smile and a glance away from each other. Now we have words, moments, memories. 

I think of a time when I didn't know you and find the absence of you strange. Was life really different once? Did I care for different things, different people and different dreams? What does that mean for the future? The idea of a time without you is unbearable; I would rather peel the skin from my face and bathe in a sea of salt than take a breath on a day in a life that doesn't involve you. I can't help but be glad that the feeling I had then didn't change. Maybe some feelings, once felt, are felt forever.

There's still a distance between us. Awkwardness and uncertainty cloud judgements and batter our hearts with doubt. You saw me today, were going to say hello, but the idea of pulling me from the pages of Whitman stopped you. You don't know that I would burn all the poetry in the world for another moment with you; any moment. 

It's strange because once you were a phantom, a ghost among bookshelves, a far off photograph - gorgeous on the outside, but showing nothing of the infinity you hold within. And now...now you're a person stepped right out of a fantasy, perfect even with all your imperfections. I knew I was never the type to judge by the superficial, but there are some things I thought would always bother me, put an end to fantasies and hope. And then I met you. You're not perfect, yet your flaws hold you together better than perfect seams. Almost everything I thought of you was true, though smudged now by the reality, the details I got wrong. And I love it anyway. 

My hands don't shake anymore, but I think I found something more profound. I could turn my fingers into bloody stumps writing of you. 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

The Persistence of Memory

A race car in a videogame. The controller in your hands. You standing a little to the side, staring intently at the screen. Me right in front of it, staring at the car as it overlaps the others, swerves around corners and crosses the finish line. Though I wanted to be staring at you, I settle for the sliver of you I get from the corner of my eye. 

Don't ask me about anything else, like if anyone looked askance at us, two girls standing in the middle of a shop, playing a videogame designed for boys, and wondering if it was a date or just an outing. And don't ask if I remember what we talked about in those few minutes, or even the other hours we spent in each other's company, because the few days that have passed since then have robbed me of the pleasures of remembering. But I remember that moment so clearly; two girls in a busy store, one of whom directed a fast car on a screen while the other watched. And I would have been content to watch forever. In that moment, unexpected and unguarded, I fell in love with you more than I expected I could. It was a perfect moment in a perfect day. While everything else melts into Time, I will forever have that moment of you. And that is everything.