The Calm Before The Storm

Calm, cool and collected. That's the way to do things.

Even if no one's got faith in you.

Pulse

I'm rekindling the fire for my past loves. Slowly they are returning to me, greeting me the way someone greets an old friend whom they love but have not seen in many years. I feel as though I am finally returning to myself.

The timing is not the best, but who am I to turn them away when they knock so loudly and persistently at my door? You should always open your door to the things which will take you back to who you used to be; there is no other way of seeing how far you've come.

As I relish the feeling of the meeting, I realise something: these are the very things which course through my veins, which pump through my blood; these are the things I'm made of. My pulse.

Have A Little Faith

I feel like I've been pulled from orbit, away from a race that isn't towards anything, and down to here, where I have a higher purpose. They say that life is about finding yourself; I disagree, I believe life is about creating yourself, and that we are all here to forge the best person we can be from the person we are. I also believe that sometimes we need help.

Perhaps a glimpse into a lifetime where we were someone different would help us choose the things we think are the best for ourselves. Perhaps we need guidance, and they do say that spirit guides find you. Well perhaps as we try to enhance our spiritual awareness we should be in touch with those forces which guide us: ancestors, animals, angels, words of the lost. Sometimes, maybe they need a helping hand to find you, the way sometimes two people destined to meet need a push in the right direction. If only it were as easy as staring at the moon and whispering a prayer to the night breeze, willing it to take your words to those who were meant to hear them.

Trusting your intuition when it tells you that there will be a time, and a place when and where they will find you, you cannot help but be a little bit skeptical, a little bit impatient. Try not to be. They will come. Sometimes, you have to trust something you cannot see; have a little faith.

A Most Contented Sleep

You whiled away all your time, now you're feeling rushed. All those minutes wasted in the lead up to something important, you can never get them back. You know that you should not have spent all those hours on something that could have waited. Now you have nothing for all that time.

But you could not resist the sense of accomplishment that came with the ticking by of those minutes. Each one of them brought you the will to continue, because at the end, there was something to show, something more than what you would have had if you'd been doing what you ought. Although you swore that you would not spend so long doing it, you blinked and the hours had passed, night had fallen, and you had not begun what you had meant to.

It does not matter, the stress can be dealt with tomorrow, because today, something more important was learnt; a lesson about yourself. Today, you learnt that you dislike doing things unless you gain a sense of accomplishment by the end of it, and something to show for all the time you felt you wasted. And so, with that in mind, it shall be easy for you to fall into a deep and contented sleep. Tonight, you feel like you earned it.

Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted

John Lennon

Shall We Dance?

To do just one romantic thing in this lifetime, it would be enough. To spontaneously take your hand when you're least expecting it, pull you to your feet and into a dance, holding you close and promising to never let go.

We'd sway silently on the spot, because sometimes, words interfere. We wouldn't have to dance to the music, or any music at all, for we'd be creating our own, together in our little space away from the world. For just a moment, we'd be oblivious to anything or anyone but ourselves and one another, locked in a dance to music no one else can hear.

I'd rest my head on your shoulder and breathe your intoxicating smell, feel your warmth radiating from beneath your clothes; you'd wrap your arms around me and form a protective cage. When the music stops, we'll sigh contentedly and relax into one another, neither wanting to let go. We'll close our eyes for a moment, to savour the feeling, carving it deeply into our memories so that we might never forget. Then we'll part, and smile shyly at each other, intertwining our fingers and standing close. And it shall be perfect.

The only question which remains is: who are you? It's not there is a shortage of people to ask, but rather, that there are only a handful who would let me do such a thing, and even fewer still who would sink gently into love in such a way. I'm trying to find someone who's heart beats to the same rhythm as mine, who hears the same music as me, who will dance to the same song as I.

Is it you?

The Complicated Question Mark

This question haunts and shadows every thought which whirls through my mind. Sometimes, I am unaware of whether I want an answer, or depend on one for my existence. Other times, I am not so sure that I do want to know.

I hide my face quite often, for I do not want the world to know who I am. I sink into the mist of anonymity, and am quite sure that to a stranger, I have never been more than just another face on the street. It is disheartening to know that I have never been the person that people's eyes are drawn to, and that there hasn't been anyone whose gaze dances between me and the person they are having a conversation with. Or, perhaps there has been and I have been completely oblivious; why do we make it our prerogative to be so blind?

Nevermind.

I was important once to someone, and through the complicated fabric of decisions, words and looks, which took us in, scrunched us up, then spat us back out, we each got hurt. Now there are none and the blank slate we each had before has been marred. It is up to us to take those scars and turn them into something beautiful and meaningful. I learnt to never love with restrictions; it is up to me to implement that lesson in the next relationship which, if I am lucky, will occur.

The question mark is seared into my mind, no amount of meditation will make it disappear, for unresolved futures always haunt the mind. I suppose though, that the real question is not who will they be. The real question is, will I ever be able to replace the question mark with "myself"? Is any body ever really comfortable enough to do so?

Waiting For Too Long

 So I bound up all my thoughts and hopes and fears and dreams in a little volume, and they await the day where I flick through the yellowed pages and compare what I wanted with what I received. In some cases, it will be better. In other cases, much worse. But this is always the way with life; it is made up entirely of things you hoped for, and then the disappointments or elations of what you received.

Already, you know most of what I wish for, what I fear; I'm afraid that I have lost all my secrets, having revealed everything through my words. I have been cut, and pulled back the skin to expose to you all the very wound which bleeds and pains, and you could see all the layers of skin that it had taken to get through to finally draw blood. I have laid out my fears for all to see, perhaps stupidly, for it is possible that someone with ill intentions could play upon them, but it was better than having them haunt me in the dark. I have even shared with you my hopes.

I wonder sometimes, why it is that I take to this writing everyday, when most days I have nothing at all to say. I wonder why I do it, when I fear that I am boring and repetitious, depressing and occasionally uncouth; I have no particular talent with words. And then I wonder why people read. It is one thing for me to write all this, and quite another for someone to read it. I wonder what you think most of the time, whether you think anything at all. Most of all, I wonder why you bother. And then I return to "why do I bother?".

There are no answers to such questions. Some things simply are. But that is the reply of the lazy minded. Of course there are answers. There are always answers, always reasons. Perhaps the closest I have to an answer is this: "We hide because we want to be found, we walk away to see who will follow, we cry to see who will wipe away the tears, and we let our hearts get broken to see who will come and fix them."

It seems that I am waiting. Not for someone to see that something is wrong, because there is nothing wrong, in a sense. But I realise that I have come to depend on the existence of another for happiness and fulfilment, and that is the person I am waiting for. Of course I know that I should be proactive, seeking this person, creating opportunities for myself; living rather than existing. But I keep telling myself, I will when I get out into Life; the problem is, this is Life. And I am simply not living it. It is terrible to think that the only reason for this is because I am waiting.

It's also impossible to think that one person could be the sole keeper of my happiness, apart from myself. With this in mind, it is little wonder that no one has taken up the spot and rid my heart of its vacancy; it is too much pressure to be what someone needs you to be. That is why the very nature of a relationship is compromise; give and take, knowing how much to expect, and knowing when to give even when it is not asked for.

Perhaps I hope that someone somewhere will stumble across what I write here, and yet, still volunteer themselves to be that person, despite everything they have read. Because this is only a notch above my worst and definitely not my best. The real questions now are, how long must I wait? and will I even be fortunate enough to have someone walk up to me and tell me that they want to be the person who makes me happy?

Perhaps. If I am blessed.

The devout and the spiritual will point out that it has not happened because it was not meant to be, that I was not ready for it. The existentialist will say that it is because I was idle. I am caught between the two; in a void between two worlds which collide sporadically and violently. Yet I am myself, nothing more, nothing less, neither this side, nor that. I understand that one day there will be someone, I only cannot help thinking that "one day" is too far away.

Another Repetition of the Same Old Theme

We two sit at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sunset, Loneliness and I. I cannot recall a time when I went looking for him, and yet, he has found me. The soft crashing of the waves against the cliff base covers the silence that falls between us, filling in those spaces between words. It is almost soothing, the sound of the water breaking over the rocks, so far below, leaving behind spray and white foam; to be lonely and content simultaneously, it would be a sort of undefined magic. Perhaps for the exceptional person, it is possible; but I am not exceptional.

Unconsenting, I sit there beside Loneliness, and he strokes my tender soul, his trained fingers finding all the flaws in the smooth façade I have created; all the roughness I have striven to forget. He won't let me forget those grooves, etched in so deep, no amount of sanding back over them could make them disappear.

Is it strange to miss a feeling you've never really felt? To miss a person you probably haven't met? Because sitting there beside Loneliness, that is what I feel. There are only so many times a blind person could wish that they could see, so many times a faithful person could pray to be saved, so many times an unloved person could hope to be loved. I'm afraid my wishes, prayers and hopes are becoming repetitious; there is yet no resolution in sight. The faith that an end to my blindness, faithlessness and loneliness might come, is fading, getting lost so quickly in among the shadows of those who have achieved contentment.

We measure our life in moments of love, our worthiness in the strength of its memory, so then, what happens to one who cannot take comfort in either? What hope is there for one who has had only Loneliness as companion for the duration of their life? Is there a hope?

We tell ourselves that one cannot be hidden in the shadow of Loneliness forever, and yet, there are those who have never known otherwise. To think that all shadows pass eventually is the folly of the naive; the wise know that there are no absolutes, no definites. Only luck. And not everyone is lucky. There are those who are unfortunate and see nothing but darkness their whole lives. Loneliness holds their hearts in his iron grip, and they may never free themselves, despite all struggle. With every day that passes, every minute that drags on, every second that ticks by, I cannot help but think that I am one of them.

You may try to convince me otherwise, but the truth is plain to see. Had it been any other way, this wouldn't be happening. Is that not true? If there was but one person in the world who loved me even a fraction of the amount I wished to be loved, that would be enough to take me from here, away from Loneliness, and his burning eyes that sear all the scared places within me, those which ask contemptuously how one like me even has a chance to be loved, afraid even as they ask that the answer is "there is no chance". But hope is persistent; tiny, but ever present, urging when there is nothing left. Yet I cannot say that I wish for love to be saved. Salvation is but a by product, a bonus to something which is already awe inspiring. 

Of course I am loved, as is every other being. But "friend" isn't "lover". Two fundamentally different types of love, which can exist together, the way a lover loves as both "lover" and "friend", but rarely, if ever, does "friend" do the same. One, we take somewhat for granted, the other we seek our entire lives; which is which depends on you, but I know which way they fall in my own life.

But no matter. There is nothing in these words for anyone other than myself. This too shall pass; the dreamers will be left to dream, the writers to write, the lovers to love. And the lonely to be lonely.

Balanced Days

Some days, you just know, aren't for creating, but appreciating. Those are the days you take, rather than give.

Freedom has a Meaning

To transcend this cage of life, that would be the ideal. There is no need for chains or bars, if you only learn how to let go. And it is time for you to let go. You do not want to acknowledge it as such, but you know it in your heart to be true. Your children are not for you to keep bound forever, for they were never really yours in the first place, but rather beings who you were charged to look after, who were in their own right supposed to enjoy a sense of freedom. They belong to the world and unto themselves, in the same way as you yourself.

Fly free, that is the goal; that has been the goal for humans since the dawn of time. Yet, we cannot seem to be able to let go of the ground. The truth is, we cannot fly. We may wish to grow wings, we may build planes to take us above the clouds, we leave behind our roots in search of something better, but in reality, we trap ourselves. Metaphorically, we are chained to the earth, we are bound to what we are taught. So metaphorically, we can fly. All it takes is looking at life with a different perspective. It may take us a long time to leave the comfort and familiarity of our families, some never do, but we can only taste true freedom if we take the chance to try the change, experience the unfamiliar.

You need to learn that children will walk away from you one day. They will return of course, the way that a bird will return to its roost after a long day, but if you don't let them leave, they cannot grow. And all life is growth. Growth is the seed of living.

So let them go. Watch them soar higher than you could have dreamed. Your job is to hold them up when they feel like they are going to crash and burn.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

On Children, 

Kahlil Gibran

Last of the Wilds

 We've only been here for a short while, the lives we lead are borrowed, the places we conquer but fleeting. We too shall fade into oblivion one day, you understand. There shall one day rise a new species who reign victorious over the lands we left behind.

165 million years ago, those conquerors were the dinosaurs, roaming the earth, the lush jungles, the harsh terrain, devouring what they needed to and nothing more. Now it is we. But we are not as kind as those reptiles. By the time our reign ends, there will be nothing left of the wilderness; all that shall be remembered are the skeletons of trees, and the shells of mountains, for they will be taken over with metal and glass and plastic. Glass boxes stacked upon one another to provide shelter for those who once knew how live beneath nothing but the stars. It is a sad fate.

I feel like one of the Elders who look at the world and lament because it is not the way it used to be. The spirit within me feels ancient, connected to the leaves of oldest trees, and the roots of the mountains which stood strong during history's worst catastrophes, and it is as though my spirit cries out with those leaves and those mountains; as they feel themselves dying, I too feel that I am dying. In a sense I am; so are we all. We cannot see our own destruction until it is upon us.

An invocation of wise spirits, brought to being by song and fire, cannot help us now. Prayers to the lights which fall from the sky are inane, nothing can bring us the relief we need. So I'll take to treading the lonely shores of the Earth, where no footprints but mine have ever marred the sand, I, transformed into a being of wisdom and innocence by the Elder spirits, for they recognise me as one of their own, and then I shall walk along the banks of a frozen river also, weeping for the generations for whom snow will be but a legend.

In the end, I shall climb one of those high mountains, where the summit is graced by the sky's curtains of light, and from there I shall embark on a journey into a learning, into the astral plane of the ancient spirits who are wise, who look down upon their descendants and grieve for them. Together the spirits and I shall turn our backs on them all, for they have brought about their own perdition.We cannot sit and watch the inevitable destruction of the last of the wilds, for we are the last of the wilds.

Art of Painting

Let the paintbrush express what you feel inside. Take it up and let it rampage across the surface of a canvas. You may be surprised by what the colours reveal to you, what the image says about you. For, the sacred expression of the soul appears through those brushstrokes. Don't you ever doubt it. It will change the way you look at art. It will change the way you look at life.

An Unconventional Sign

I cannot see the reason any longer why we should sit and stare while life goes on. There are things to enjoy.
So enjoy them.

Throw back your head and howl with laughter. You'll realise then what life is all about.

In the Morning Darkness

I awake, the room is still dark, and the only sound is the soft ticking of my watch, counting down the minutes. I flip to my back and stare at the ornate ceiling, wondering how I could be awake at such an ungodly hour. I long for sleep, a rest which extends to my mind, all the while knowing that it will evade me resolutely. This is a scene which has repeated itself too often. 

To let the memory of you slip from my mind, the way water seeps through fingers, that is easy. But to chase you from my dreams - it is impossible. You have a habit of finding me when my guard is down the most, leaving me helpless to fight you. The conscious mind pretends to forget you, but the unconscious still clings to you tightly, letting you surface for air the only way it can; and so I meet with you night and night again in the realm of dreams. 

I wake every morning feeling as though I did not sleep at all. They say there is no rest for the wicked, but was I really so bad as to deserve this punishment? I emerge from those visions and I am tense, nervous, tired; the fatigue of someone who doesn't know how to fight anymore. The memory tugs at me, pulls and pushes, testing to see how much I can take, and in the darkness of the early mornings, amid the silence which presses down from every side, I must question whether they were dreams or visions, or glimpses at an alternate reality.

Please, I need to rest. Properly, not this restless state of half dream. If I dream, I want it to be of the wolves and the mountains, the bears and the rivers, the eagles and the clouds, not torturous visions of you, laughing, teasing, reminding. I can't go on seeing your face every time I close my eyes.

Drowned by Faith

Oh but I just want you to know that I don't believe in your superstitions. There's nothing there but empty thoughts and hollow promises; nothing tangible at all. You may argue that that's the point of believing: it's not faith if you can see it. Yet I can't stand here and watch you get taken in by foolery; I need something better to believe in. So let me tell you about my faith.

I believe that one day there'll be a mass revolution. People taking to what they feel, what they want, instead of cowering in the corner clinging to ideals while the whole world crashes down around them, trying to take comfort in the way things "should" be, rather than what they are. I believe they'll all rise against the accepted and forge a new way for the future, where it doesn't matter if something seems impossible; they'll try for it anyway. There'll be a time where rebellion ceases to be a cause, and becomes a way of life. A time where people start being instead of wondering and dreaming; taking leaps instead of steps towards their goals.

"But that isn't faith. That's already happening," you say to me. And I reply, "Exactly."

Yet there's more. I believe that someday there'll be someone who will lead me alone down to the sand as the sun sinks into the sea, and I'll let them, even though I hate the sand, simply because it's them. It won't matter what happened before we got there, what happens while we're there, or what will happen afterwards. The point is, it will all have happened.

You look at me quizzically, as though you don't understand.
"It's faith if there's no evidence that it will occur," I explain. You look away, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps uncaring; who knows? Clearly, you're another of the six billion to cross off the list.

So stop burning your candles for me, stop whispering your prayers, stop dabbling in an old maid's witchcraft. It's all drowning in the light of something stronger.

Make Your Miracle

There's a difference between looking and seeing.
A difference between listening and hearing.
A difference between wanting and needing.

On occasion, it's difficult to tell one from the other.

You still wonder sometimes, what would have happened if you'd looked the other way, whether things would have turned out differently. Whether what you feel now would still hold true. Make no mistake; it still would have happened, whether you turned just at the last second, or whether it bludgeoned you on the back of the head, or whether it simply found another way, it would have happened.

You lie there as though your wings are broken, but they've never been spread wider. They wait for you to stop clinging to your last scrap of nostalgia so they can let you soar once more. You're on the brink, just put in a little more effort; before you know it, you'll be flying high. Stop looking for the past in the future, be brave and take a different path. Open up to what you don't know.

Just don't sit there and let life pass you by, because you're waiting for your miracle to happen. You have to reach for it. Otherwise you will end up sitting on that same old street corner, old and frail, wondering where on earth you went wrong, and why you're still there when all else have moved on, climbed higher.

Remember, there's a difference between staring at something and grabbing it.

A difference between seeing, appreciating and understanding.

Light at the End of the World

See the light at the end of the world. Feel it as it fades, melting, dripping, seeping over the horizon; liquid colour. When you feel like the only person in existence, let yourself go, flow with that colour, ride that light. Don't you want to see where it takes you?

Bleed into another realm, hidden beyond the horizon, where it's all unknown, different, take it in, breathe it, taste it, live it. Float with those changing colours as they melt over the ultimate border, it'll take you somewhere surreal. Just be warned, once you're gone, following that light at the end of the world, there's no way you'll be coming back.

The Forge

It's time to become someone different. Someone you want to be. It's not fair that you should feel uncomfortable within your own skin, like it's too big for you, and you don't quite fill it out properly. Forge yourself from a different mould, carve until you're happy.

And don't tell anyone that you were unsure whether it would work.

Will it Rain?

Don't let fear of the worst keep you from reaching for the best. Dare to hope for something better.

Interrupted Paradise

The simplest truth is always the hardest to admit:

I miss you.

Masked Reflections

In a quiet moment, when darkness has fallen, close your eyes; you'll be able to feel your walls crumbling. The fortifications you've assembled to keep you protected are falling away, chipping and cracking, slowly revealing who hides within. You are aware that you are not ready for them all to see you as you are, but there is nothing to stop this process.

All those years you spent building up those walls, all that time, all that effort, it is amounting to nothing. All because one person managed to break through them completely. Now they're gone, but their destruction lies evident. It is in the way you laugh louder than anyone, cheer harder, hug tighter, for those are the ways you are trying to rebuild your defences. They are the ways you try to remind yourself that you are vulnerable, and that you must pretend to be strong once more. You're trying to refit the mask that is no longer sculpted to your face.

You're afraid of what they might all find beneath that mask; you're afraid that they'll all run scared. You're not as good a person as you seem, that one person made sure you show you that. They cut you and bruised you and toyed with you then left, terrified, when you began to bite back. They'd pushed you to your breaking point; even a saint's patience has a limit, and you sure aren't a saint. They were too cowardly to face what they'd created in you and now you're left, alone, lonely, seeking something you don't understand.

You'd flee back into the arms of the person who broke you, even though they despise you, with an undisguised hatred. You must understand; they cannot look at you because you reflect who they are. They hate you because you embody all that they could have been, and all that they take away from themselves when they hurt you. For every time they beat you, they'd rejoice, for you are one who shares in their lonely pain. But they've left you now, because they couldn't bear the thought that the fault of creating another like them lies with themselves alone. They look at you and are reminded of their own evil, of the person who hides behind their own mask. Only the truly good can bear to be stripped naked of their façade, and they are always too modest to do so. Remember, you were one of them once, before that person got to you.

So in a quiet moment, reflect upon everything; recall who you were, wish for who you could be, vow to start living once again. But don't close your eyes, because all you'll see is the face of the person who broke you.

Eye of the Beholder

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And I've never found you more beautiful than now; the forbidden always looks more attractive. Yet I suspect that if I were to try, I could make you want me all over again, and make you lift the ban you've placed on us.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. This is true; it is because you begin to forget all the flaws, you begin to overlook them, focusing instead on all the good qualities, the ones which made you fall in love in the first place. I wonder if your heart's grown fonder of me in my absence, the way mine has grown fonder of you. But then, perhaps it has grown more bitter. It is unfortunate that I do not have the ability to read the human heart.

I do not deny that around other people my attitude towards you changes, that I grow bitter and angry and annoyed at the things you do. It is a mask for how I truly feel, for I think it is more acceptable to feel angry than to still love you. I am conforming to what I think society expects from me in our current circumstances. While it is a lie, it is not entirely a falsehood either; but I am learning to look beyond what vexes me.

Amazingly, as closely as you kept me, I never felt caged, though you feared that I would beat at the bars you'd placed around me, as though escape was the only thing I thought of. However, I never thought of escape. I experienced far more freedom with you than you would believe. I know you would not believe it, you think that you incarcerated me too much; I say you freed me much more. Physically you imprisoned me, but emotionally I was at liberty. You should understand that that is something I will take with me for the rest of my life.

Supposing though, that it worked the other way too, then I recognise that I must have imprisoned you also. Although I did not feel chained, perhaps you did? Maybe that is why you needed to fly from me. I suppose I must say that I understand. After all, everyone longs to fly. Everyone deserves that chance.
I hope the flight has been enjoyable, and that you have taken some important life lessons from it. But I also want you to know that although you may want to return at the end of it, I may already have taken flight once more. Perhaps we'll meet mid air someday.

Writings from Despair

No, honestly, you have no idea what it's like to be me. Yes, you're sympathetic for a moment, you know when to put on that face and try to comfort, but in actuality, your comfort is not enough. Quite frankly it isn't what I'm looking for.
I return home each day feeling emotionally drained. You don't understand how much just spending a day among people actually takes out of me, especially in a place where I have to deal with the people I wish I knew where I stood with. Maybe I make things more complicated than they have to be, but maybe, just maybe I'm actually seeing them for as complex as they are. I cannot concentrate because I am too tired; all I want to do is collapse and be rendered unconscious by sleep. Although sleep takes me to dreams where all my fears are played out again, I have a comfort in knowing that I won't wake up and remember them.

On the one side there is you. You whom I have spoken endlessly about, the words colliding and running over one another in an endless cycle. And yet I could speak forever about you. Yes, repetition is boring, but it may be the only way I can get closer to you.
It's been too long. I loved you once, now we don't speak. I want to reconcile, but I can't because I don't want to love you again, even though I never really stopped. I want to embrace you for who you are, but I know that it just may well be impossible. You changed me, and I cannot say that for the most part it was for the better. I was a better person before I fell for you.
I don't blame you, but the fault is not entirely mine either. Nowadays I don't know what I want from you anymore. It's too hard to be friends, and most likely impossible to be lovers; how should I know, we never tried the latter. Came dangerously close perhaps, but never tried.
But I miss you like there's a hole inside of me, carved to fit you perfectly. None but you shall ever fit it. Just know that. The saddest part is, we are most likely going to finish things this week without having made up, because neither of us is brave enough, nor perhaps even wants it enough to try. It's too confusing, and it hurts too much.
I don't know how you feel. In fact, I barely know you. It's depressing, we spent so long together, and now we're almost complete strangers. True, if we were to meet we would not have become friends, but that would be because we didn't already have a history like we do now.
Damn it. Do you see? My confusion comes across here too. Perhaps what we really need is a time of intense intimacy, where we give ourselves to the other completely, only for that short time. Then we may get a sense of where we stand, of what we could have, what we gave up, and finally be able to move on. Because god knows that nothing else is working. Treating you like you don't exist hurts more than it heals.

And then there's you. What to say about you? Where to begin? Our relationship seems so simple on the surface, but I have the feeling that there is something as yet hidden, lurking beneath. I have the feeling that there are things you really don't want to tell. I should respect that, I know that you will do things all in your own time, but I'm far too impatient these days.
You weren't always in my life, but now that you are, you play such a big role that it's disconcerting. I'll admit that there's something disarming about you, something that made me pause and think for a moment, all those months ago, which I then dismissed. I wasn't really ready to fall for you. I'd only just really met you, was only just getting to know you. That something returned in a dream, and shook me to my core. I hadn't expected that. I dismissed it again, and it didn't return, mostly because somewhere along the way, I was distracted by, then fell for someone else. But now they're fading out of my life; and what I'd pushed aside all that time ago is slowly fading back into view. I'd forgotten, but you said something and made me think about it all over again.
This time it comes with something a little different. This time, if I'm to listen to intuition, it seems you may have feelings for me. Problem is, you haven't said anything directly. That's too bad. I can't be sure from subtle implications and body language and what I think is flirting. Then again, perhaps I'm just assuming everything is an implication, seeing as I missed every implication the first time around with the other person. Maybe I'm just hearing my intuition wrong. I won't know until you tell me.
It's a bit of a problem you see, because I promised I wouldn't fall for you. But that promise is slipping. It was slipping long before I'd even made it, long before I even fell for that other person, because you must understand, although the feelings for you got pushed to the side, they never went away. Now they're just coming to the fore again, this time with a vengeance. Breaking a promise isn't easy; breaking a promise you wish you hadn't made is even harder.
Right now what I want from you is the truth about how you feel, so I know where we stand. If there is something in those hugs, those touches, those words, then you need to tell me. The fact you got quieter when I gently mocked you for sounding like you were trying to convince yourself that you had no feelings for me implied the complete opposite of what you were saying. I understand, I do. This is fear and longing all rolled into the one. The only cure is for one to be satisfied. But I can't help you if you won't tell me anything.
Because if it so happened that my intuition is right I would no longer care about breaking that promise. In fact I would do it willingly.

What I need is someone I can crumble in front of. This is all too much and I can't be strong anymore, wanting nothing more than to crawl up into the corner of a darkened room and cry until all the worries have disappeared. I need someone to come and save me, from them, from the world, from myself. I know I'm only likely to find another broken soul like me, but then at least perhaps we can pull through it together. Nothing is worse than being alone. It is the greatest tragedy of human existence that what we fear most is what always comes to pass.

Sometimes I think that the world would be a much better place if we did not have the disposition to fall in love. There would be fewer people who wanted to have a truck run over them because they could not find any other cure.

The Unwritten Epic

It's such a shame that we let the bad times get the better of us. It's a shame that we let fear and uncertainty stop us when we could have gone so far. Now I don't know what to do. I could apologise until the sun exploded, but that wouldn't bring back all the times we've lost. The only thing I can say is that I won't make the same mistakes again; it hurt too much to make them, and neither of us have anything to show for what we used to have except a broken heart. Not even the memories make us smile anymore.

Ironically, the stars grow dimmer in the shadows that lengthen and darken our lives, casting a depression on our hearts and a melancholy on our minds. It's not healing, this wound you left on me; or perhaps it just needs more time, more than the two months its already had. Two months of anguish, of crying out in the night, in the silences, seething with incomprehensible pain unbeknownst to anyone. Getting over annoyances are easy, but leaving behind people, that's a whole other matter, one which I am not able to overcome.

I think sometimes that we were caught up in something that neither of us quite understood. Thus we were afraid to take it further. Our relationship was deceptive, our story even more so. None but we know the truth, and that truth is that there was nothing. Nothing could be more anticlimactic than nothing, nothing more disappointing. And yet, that is what happened between us. Even though we both might have wished otherwise.

I'm apologetic for the both of us always being at each other's throat, snared by a battle of emotions worthy of an epic. I'm sorry that neither of us came out of it entirely whole.

The Night Students

Anxious waiting. Nervous fidgeting. Twinge in my stomach. Darting eyes. Breathless sighs.

Waiting for you.

Heart skips a beat. Heart speeds up, races. Heart hurts. Heart loves.

Eyes drink all that is you, only through furtive glances. Shy smiles followed by outbursts of raucous laughter. Tentative touches, the fear and tenderness hidden in a façade of indifference; we're all too afraid to fall in love. We're all afraid of being left broken. But you can't live if you don't let the seasons change.

Shall we lose our innocence? Together we shall learn, two eager, passionate, but timid students of love. We shall determine whether their philosophies are correct, and if we disagree we shall invent our own. No rules, just life, just love, just you. Come, we'll make the night ours, and share it with none but the owls.

And in the morning we'll serenade each other with sighs, and laughs, tongues playing with names. In the day we'll brush fingers along hands, and lips upon brows. Close your eyes, listen to my prayer, promise never to leave. I'll surrender my heart to you if you swear not to crush it; we're all too fragile. I won't let you go, not after being caught by your kiss, not after being held in your arms. I promise not to cause you pain.

What do you say?
Will you come take me away?