Being in love is a new science to me. I’ve loved several other people mind you, but I’ve never caught myself in love.
In the past I didn’t know or even cared about the frigid difference. It was just me and this other person sexually attracted for a few sparse moments. (And in my defense I would like to point out that I am not a slut.) But all of a sudden I find myself neck deep in this deliciously warm goo.
My lungs can’t breathe, my limbs can’t move about but deep inside I’m happy. I'm delightfully vulnerable in his arms and blissful to be so. I trust him more than he knows. I want to be with him now, tomorrow, the next day, on my birthday, in 2012, on my death bed and beyond.
Today, February 17, 2010 is the one year anniversary since we’ve been in love. I’m so proud I’ve never gone this long without feeling that it has decreased. In fact I’m in deeper love than I was last year.
I want this man. My heart belongs to him in a way that he will never understand, in a way that I will never fully understand.
I love you Joseph.
(This is a future post written 12-29-2009)
|Sorry, it's been forever. But I've been sick and I got my wisdom teeth taken out so that was a b#$h. But do me a favor and ask me a question at this link below. |
I saw a photograph. It made me want to go outside and look up at the sky, just to see if I could see what she found so interesting. I’m weird. I know.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m headed the right way, if I have set my goals correctly. I wonder if maybe somewhere far away amongst the stars I have a meaning far greater than perceived. Far too great, far too vast for earth’s suppressing limits.
I dream with flying away, into space where everything is beautiful and equally deadly. Where the stardust will poison me and make me shine like a star all the same. I dream of a place where my imagination can silently go supernova and you can peacefully watch from earth.
I try not to think about the possibilities that I have before me but I can’t suffocate myself any longer. The butterflies are spilling into my belly fluttering away my sanity. I’m sick and tired of fitting into your mold, I want to breakout.
My dreams are bigger than you, bigger than everything. And that may sound self-centered but in the end I’m the one that will look back in regret the moment before I die.
Today is the last day of the year consequently it is also my seventeenth birthday. (Yes, I know I am young.)
Looking back, this year wasn’t the worst of them all. During the course of the year I grew up, some may even say I changed though I find that highly impossible.
I came out of the closet--no not that one--I told people my story. I wrote every painful memory of my abuse down and I took a lighter to it. Some memories still haunt me but some are lodged far too deep to sever, one in particular took the form of a long, thin scar running down my back, tracing my spine. It marred my skin but I learned to find it beautiful. Just as I learned that its cause is reason to question everything.
I fell in love for the first time in my life. I’ve never felt like this. I find it scary but I replaced my fear of the unknown with a voracious curiosity, now I can’t stay still. He has taught me that love isn't organic, one must labor to make it work. That love is filled with compromises and struggles but in order for it to flourish you must not give up. And I wont give up. We have something irreplaceable.
I'm a homemaker in training. Haha. I learned to cook and bake. Now I can’t wait until I can bake my ass off. I can't wait until I can cook a full family dinner for my otherwise lonely eaters. I want to cook for you!
I learned the hard way that emotions brew in the eyes and not in one’s voice box and that’s why no one knew she would kill herself. I lost a friend to war and another to herself. I learned how to live with the pain, even though at night it creeps up on me.
And today December 31st, as the clock strikes twelve I will be someone I have never been before: A seventeen year old, freaky girl with good intentions that will find a way to make it all work in twenty ten.
Happy New year!
A notebook, a pen and scribbled note cards used to litter my desk’s surface. Overtime in its place a computer tower, a dusty keyboard and a bulky monitor. It’s the place where I used to put my daydreams down on paper, it eventually evolved into digital documents. Sure the heavy, oak desk was replaced with a scrawny, pale weakling. But in essence it is the same place because a writer’s desk is not a physical spot. It’s a state of mind.
Now that place lays abandoned, unused.
I’ve spent hours at a time daydreaming hundreds of scenes and about a third of that time trying to put them down on paper. And I wonder how the idea that I will get published someday, fits in my creative little head if I don’t write as much as a writer should.
I give myself a timeframe, deadlines even but I can’t follow them. Now I am left to wonder what is going to happen to my dream if I don’t take care of business. I have close to five book-worthy stories in my head all of which I obsess over finding out more but I never develop it on paper.
You smell that? It’s the sweet scent of warm oatmeal cookies. It’s time to write some words, even if they don’t make sense.