Monday, January 29, 2007
Paura delle
I once wrote this blog about how men and women could never truly be friends, quoting Rob Reiner's philosophy beneath Harry's healthily cynical character in When Harry Met Sally, because "the sex part always gets in the way."
And I was feeling quite cynical at the time, I will admit. Because I had just slept with one of my long-time friends and already felt the beginning of that friendship disappearing beneath me.
More than a year later, I was right, or at least in that case.
But it has me thinking about something else, too.
My buddy Dave and I've had quite a few conversations about this. He's the one that coined the term, "the getting weird." He said it wasn't the sex that got in the way, it was the getting weird, and the key to figuring out how to avoid that I guess would be something else, not taking out the sex part, haha. Of course not.
I know a few things about myself, at least, on this subject, but some information is useless unless you know what to do with it, you know what I mean? Shah.
I've had very little sleep, and my head's all cloudy, but anyway ...
Once, in another conversation with Dave he told me I sought different things from my relationships than I did from my friendships. I disagreed at the time. It's true I very seldom get involved with my friends, and prefer to meet people outside of my own circles.
The reason behind that, you know, I'm not really sure about, except that I love the excitement that comes along with just meeting someone completely knew and different, and randomly establishing some sensational connection.
Then again, the problem with sensational connections is that they can be burnt out almost as fast as they light up, only, at least at the end of that you could say you had a really good time, and didn't really lose much, except that there have been times when I've been through breakups and felt like I lost my best friend, even if the person was new to me.
So back to the getting weird part. I compartmentalize. I see it more and more in myself. Chris was the first person to point this out to me and use that term, because he saw in me so much of what he saw in himself, which is funny because in the end, our similarities are what broke us up, but anyway ...
I compartmentalize. I keep several blogs, and I know who reads what. And I love to tell stories, true stories, but I'll tell some people the stories in their entirety, and edit out some of the most important parts to others, telling myself they're still true, in their own way, and sometimes they're even nice little packages of entertaining anecdotes, good things to have over coffee and cigarettes, or letters, or late night conversations on the telephone.
And then I have this other running argument in my mind that is more like an enormous fear, that I'm sure dictates my actions here and there.
When you establish a relationship with someone, or start dating them, usually you talk about the things that matter, or at least, I do.
And you're the funniest and wittiest and smartest you have ever been, and can be on demand, like the way you can turn on a light switch, and you've got so much to talk about and none of it's all that cliche bull shit you've talked about 8,000 times either, and if it is, you gain some new perspective from this new person and it just feels new, and is new.
A few months down the road, you talk all the time, and you watch movies, and you lie down and cuddle on couches, and you might even go for some drives, but its so routine and this person is just there, and things change somehow, following, for what I could think of right now, down one of two possible paths.
The first one is the idea of the person you had when you first met and/or started dating. And all the things you loved about them, and all the things you used to talk about, and maybe the chills you felt the first time they laid a hand on you. And you miss that, and you miss those things. Because the conversation has gone from once being so much and meaning so much to what seems so mundane, those daily life things that get in the way, those daily life things that become so apparent when you spend so much time with anyone as you are spending with each other.
The other way things can go is that all of those things can still be there, but you somehow don't appreciate them as much, plain and simple.
And they both suck.
So now I'm writing this and I'm thinking about the whole compartmentalizing thing, and pairing that up with how much I've been thinking lately that I'm a seriously closet case of that whole fear of intimacy thing, all the while asking myself how I could've even a few days ago referred to myself in a conversation as "emotionally unavailable," and cursing this paradoxical hypocrisy running through me, because obviously if you know me at all and read this or talk to me or listen to my songs you would know I'm overwhelmingly chock full of emotions and thoughts, so how could this be?
I don't know, man, but I'm trying so hard to work it out. And then part of me thinks I'm trying too hard.
Like that one time I wrote the blog about logic and emotion and was thinking about that for months and decided they are the same thing, just like how I think right brain and left brain are the same thing, and science, math, art, and music, are the same thing.
And maybe they are, when you're thinking in ten dimensions, but maybe as a human being, a mere animal blessed or cursed, however you look at it, with rational thought and a posable thumb so that you can think about all these things while doing other things, including trying to sleep, which is sure as fuck what I did last night.
And I don't really have a real way to conclude this, because I've only drawn a tip of an iceberg of conclusions, but it is on my mind very, very much. Fuck, it is.
And what trips me up even more, is that I can know all this and know that what I want and what most people want is to someday be able to go home to a person and be greeted with a kiss and hug and be asked how their day was. And that's as simple as it gets.
I once wrote this blog about how men and women could never truly be friends, quoting Rob Reiner's philosophy beneath Harry's healthily cynical character in When Harry Met Sally, because "the sex part always gets in the way."
And I was feeling quite cynical at the time, I will admit. Because I had just slept with one of my long-time friends and already felt the beginning of that friendship disappearing beneath me.
More than a year later, I was right, or at least in that case.
But it has me thinking about something else, too.
My buddy Dave and I've had quite a few conversations about this. He's the one that coined the term, "the getting weird." He said it wasn't the sex that got in the way, it was the getting weird, and the key to figuring out how to avoid that I guess would be something else, not taking out the sex part, haha. Of course not.
I know a few things about myself, at least, on this subject, but some information is useless unless you know what to do with it, you know what I mean? Shah.
I've had very little sleep, and my head's all cloudy, but anyway ...
Once, in another conversation with Dave he told me I sought different things from my relationships than I did from my friendships. I disagreed at the time. It's true I very seldom get involved with my friends, and prefer to meet people outside of my own circles.
The reason behind that, you know, I'm not really sure about, except that I love the excitement that comes along with just meeting someone completely knew and different, and randomly establishing some sensational connection.
Then again, the problem with sensational connections is that they can be burnt out almost as fast as they light up, only, at least at the end of that you could say you had a really good time, and didn't really lose much, except that there have been times when I've been through breakups and felt like I lost my best friend, even if the person was new to me.
So back to the getting weird part. I compartmentalize. I see it more and more in myself. Chris was the first person to point this out to me and use that term, because he saw in me so much of what he saw in himself, which is funny because in the end, our similarities are what broke us up, but anyway ...
I compartmentalize. I keep several blogs, and I know who reads what. And I love to tell stories, true stories, but I'll tell some people the stories in their entirety, and edit out some of the most important parts to others, telling myself they're still true, in their own way, and sometimes they're even nice little packages of entertaining anecdotes, good things to have over coffee and cigarettes, or letters, or late night conversations on the telephone.
And then I have this other running argument in my mind that is more like an enormous fear, that I'm sure dictates my actions here and there.
When you establish a relationship with someone, or start dating them, usually you talk about the things that matter, or at least, I do.
And you're the funniest and wittiest and smartest you have ever been, and can be on demand, like the way you can turn on a light switch, and you've got so much to talk about and none of it's all that cliche bull shit you've talked about 8,000 times either, and if it is, you gain some new perspective from this new person and it just feels new, and is new.
A few months down the road, you talk all the time, and you watch movies, and you lie down and cuddle on couches, and you might even go for some drives, but its so routine and this person is just there, and things change somehow, following, for what I could think of right now, down one of two possible paths.
The first one is the idea of the person you had when you first met and/or started dating. And all the things you loved about them, and all the things you used to talk about, and maybe the chills you felt the first time they laid a hand on you. And you miss that, and you miss those things. Because the conversation has gone from once being so much and meaning so much to what seems so mundane, those daily life things that get in the way, those daily life things that become so apparent when you spend so much time with anyone as you are spending with each other.
The other way things can go is that all of those things can still be there, but you somehow don't appreciate them as much, plain and simple.
And they both suck.
So now I'm writing this and I'm thinking about the whole compartmentalizing thing, and pairing that up with how much I've been thinking lately that I'm a seriously closet case of that whole fear of intimacy thing, all the while asking myself how I could've even a few days ago referred to myself in a conversation as "emotionally unavailable," and cursing this paradoxical hypocrisy running through me, because obviously if you know me at all and read this or talk to me or listen to my songs you would know I'm overwhelmingly chock full of emotions and thoughts, so how could this be?
I don't know, man, but I'm trying so hard to work it out. And then part of me thinks I'm trying too hard.
Like that one time I wrote the blog about logic and emotion and was thinking about that for months and decided they are the same thing, just like how I think right brain and left brain are the same thing, and science, math, art, and music, are the same thing.
And maybe they are, when you're thinking in ten dimensions, but maybe as a human being, a mere animal blessed or cursed, however you look at it, with rational thought and a posable thumb so that you can think about all these things while doing other things, including trying to sleep, which is sure as fuck what I did last night.
And I don't really have a real way to conclude this, because I've only drawn a tip of an iceberg of conclusions, but it is on my mind very, very much. Fuck, it is.
And what trips me up even more, is that I can know all this and know that what I want and what most people want is to someday be able to go home to a person and be greeted with a kiss and hug and be asked how their day was. And that's as simple as it gets.
Labels: Movies, Relationships
FUCKING COFFEE!!!!
My head's spinning with one million arguments on two loops going at the same pace in opposite directions that never intersect.
One of them is simple vs. complicated, black and white vs. gray, I suppose. And for anyone who's ever read this it would probably be no surprise which of them is my favorite, or which one I suppose I am pulled to like a magnet, and I swear I'm not a drama queen, either.
Just a poor soul who gets easily confused. Or a fool, but a smart-ish one, one so smart she can see all routes to one place and always choose the longest or most dangerous one without exception.
Then I'm reading some very interesting books lately and sort of drawing some foolish philosophy or understanding from them, or at least trying to broaden my own, picking and choosing pieces of information. But maybe all I'm doing is just adding to the track that's going to loop in the same place anyway. Just choosing things that fit into what was already there, even if in some broader perspective, like taking in other dimensions while still staying right in a box.
And sometimes I don't write at all, not even to myself. And sometimes I don't think either, for someone who thinks a lot.
And sometimes I need to take a break, and I guess that's what all these jumbled up letters are, because a little recycling can be the only way to work things out sometimes.
Once, years and years ago this person I barely knew told me that when I feel a certain way, I shut down. That it was this learned response, something I'd trained myself to do when I was a kid.
Like how when I was younger my parents would yell and yell at me sometimes and I could sit quietly and space out and show no emotion whatsoever, nor say a word, and how it would frustrate them and piss them off even more, but it was all I could do.
So this person I barely knew, long ago, to continue this story, observed this in me once, and called me out, but I didn't want to hear it because I had already reached that stage at that point and the words had fallen on deaf ears.
Isn't it funny how sometimes things like that will happen. How it can take you five or ten years, or maybe more, I don't know because I'm not that old, I guess, to realize how many things you've heard that were true that you disagreed with for so long.
Some say things are simple.
Some say things are complicated.
Some people oversimplify like a motherfucker and generalize a fucking lot.
Others overanalyze and run themselves in circles, and stay up late after millions of cups of coffee, re-evaluating what they know and once knew, and once never knew, I suppose.
So back to these books I'm reading, man. They are inspiring me, in addition to some other things that are happening in my life, to make some changes.
It's like moving, in my mind. Choosing a place to go, how much to pay, what goes, what stays ....
And moving is stressful, but goddamnit if I'd rather move than stay somewhere for my whole entire life and never know what's out there.
On the other hand, constantly moving leaves no room for stability, other than the constant bisogno di volere for anything stare, like amore, amici, le lingue in alcuni.
Non posso fare il mio cuore d'accordo con miei occhi. Non posso correre niente, perche sarei sempri pensare della casa. E non parlo della casa dove si voglia e fa vivere; parlo della i mundi.
E tutti il mio vero sta in una casa che molto difficile trovare. Il solamente cosi posso dare -- aspettare. Perche? Posso penso o aspetto.
Questi cosi sono molti importanti a me, tu visti?
Fottere! Dormire! Fottere tutti! Dimentico fottere. Dimentico dello! Il mio cervello bisogno dello pompino. Perche le molte possibilite bisognano succhiare esterno. Successivamente, i miei amici, e solamente successivamente, eventualmente, magari capisci almeno alcuni cosi, e abbia le alcune opinione in una certa misura.
Okay?
Thanks.
My head's spinning with one million arguments on two loops going at the same pace in opposite directions that never intersect.
One of them is simple vs. complicated, black and white vs. gray, I suppose. And for anyone who's ever read this it would probably be no surprise which of them is my favorite, or which one I suppose I am pulled to like a magnet, and I swear I'm not a drama queen, either.
Just a poor soul who gets easily confused. Or a fool, but a smart-ish one, one so smart she can see all routes to one place and always choose the longest or most dangerous one without exception.
Then I'm reading some very interesting books lately and sort of drawing some foolish philosophy or understanding from them, or at least trying to broaden my own, picking and choosing pieces of information. But maybe all I'm doing is just adding to the track that's going to loop in the same place anyway. Just choosing things that fit into what was already there, even if in some broader perspective, like taking in other dimensions while still staying right in a box.
And sometimes I don't write at all, not even to myself. And sometimes I don't think either, for someone who thinks a lot.
And sometimes I need to take a break, and I guess that's what all these jumbled up letters are, because a little recycling can be the only way to work things out sometimes.
Once, years and years ago this person I barely knew told me that when I feel a certain way, I shut down. That it was this learned response, something I'd trained myself to do when I was a kid.
Like how when I was younger my parents would yell and yell at me sometimes and I could sit quietly and space out and show no emotion whatsoever, nor say a word, and how it would frustrate them and piss them off even more, but it was all I could do.
So this person I barely knew, long ago, to continue this story, observed this in me once, and called me out, but I didn't want to hear it because I had already reached that stage at that point and the words had fallen on deaf ears.
Isn't it funny how sometimes things like that will happen. How it can take you five or ten years, or maybe more, I don't know because I'm not that old, I guess, to realize how many things you've heard that were true that you disagreed with for so long.
Some say things are simple.
Some say things are complicated.
Some people oversimplify like a motherfucker and generalize a fucking lot.
Others overanalyze and run themselves in circles, and stay up late after millions of cups of coffee, re-evaluating what they know and once knew, and once never knew, I suppose.
So back to these books I'm reading, man. They are inspiring me, in addition to some other things that are happening in my life, to make some changes.
It's like moving, in my mind. Choosing a place to go, how much to pay, what goes, what stays ....
And moving is stressful, but goddamnit if I'd rather move than stay somewhere for my whole entire life and never know what's out there.
On the other hand, constantly moving leaves no room for stability, other than the constant bisogno di volere for anything stare, like amore, amici, le lingue in alcuni.
Non posso fare il mio cuore d'accordo con miei occhi. Non posso correre niente, perche sarei sempri pensare della casa. E non parlo della casa dove si voglia e fa vivere; parlo della i mundi.
E tutti il mio vero sta in una casa che molto difficile trovare. Il solamente cosi posso dare -- aspettare. Perche? Posso penso o aspetto.
Questi cosi sono molti importanti a me, tu visti?
Fottere! Dormire! Fottere tutti! Dimentico fottere. Dimentico dello! Il mio cervello bisogno dello pompino. Perche le molte possibilite bisognano succhiare esterno. Successivamente, i miei amici, e solamente successivamente, eventualmente, magari capisci almeno alcuni cosi, e abbia le alcune opinione in una certa misura.
Okay?
Thanks.
Labels: Anxiety, Confusion, Insomnia, Moving
The Naked Truth
(10/21/06)
I focused the lens on the speckles in his eyes. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he didn't. He cracked jokes, now and then, to ease the tension, and we laughed our asses off. He was always good at that.
I tried not to show it as I stood there, hiding behind my camera on the street, but I was naked. My stupid t-shirt, my long, curly pigtails, my brown pullover, my bangs hanging in my face, my jeans, my socks and my Spider-man shoelaces all disintegrated into his stare.
As the photographer, I thought I would be the one seeing. His eyes reflected my mistake.
I wish I could claim ignorance as to why Chris agreed to pose for my portrait project, more than two months after we last spoke.
I wish I could shrug my shoulders as to why I wanted to photograph him in the first place, telling myself and everyone else I just wanted to.
I can't lie. I've never been good at it; or maybe I have. Maybe it's just the opposite: I'm too good at it. I'm such a good liar I believe my own lies. I guess you could say I'm a "real phoney." A Holly Golightly. An honest liar. A fan of chronosynclastic infundibulum.
I tried to be honest, but I lied. I didn't just lie, I photographed the lie:
The lie that I'm over him.
The lie that things are hurting less.
The lie that I could look at him and foolishly think I wouldn't feel anything.
The lie that his heart wouldn't pound faster as I hugged him goodbye in the same way it did a year-and-a-half ago after coffee, before I ever knew how head over heels I'd be -- in just a little while.
I lied to myself when I told him I wanted to be friends, and that I missed him, but not That Way, but I just Did, and he agreed.
That's what human beings do -- fucking liars!
Cameras tell the truth, and my camera captured a story on film that's gonna break my darkroom heart, one print at a time, and each photo on the wall Wednesday is going to expose a secret, and I'll be there, naked on the street -- powerless -- all over again.
(10/21/06)
I focused the lens on the speckles in his eyes. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he didn't. He cracked jokes, now and then, to ease the tension, and we laughed our asses off. He was always good at that.
I tried not to show it as I stood there, hiding behind my camera on the street, but I was naked. My stupid t-shirt, my long, curly pigtails, my brown pullover, my bangs hanging in my face, my jeans, my socks and my Spider-man shoelaces all disintegrated into his stare.
As the photographer, I thought I would be the one seeing. His eyes reflected my mistake.
I wish I could claim ignorance as to why Chris agreed to pose for my portrait project, more than two months after we last spoke.
I wish I could shrug my shoulders as to why I wanted to photograph him in the first place, telling myself and everyone else I just wanted to.
I can't lie. I've never been good at it; or maybe I have. Maybe it's just the opposite: I'm too good at it. I'm such a good liar I believe my own lies. I guess you could say I'm a "real phoney." A Holly Golightly. An honest liar. A fan of chronosynclastic infundibulum.
I tried to be honest, but I lied. I didn't just lie, I photographed the lie:
The lie that I'm over him.
The lie that things are hurting less.
The lie that I could look at him and foolishly think I wouldn't feel anything.
The lie that his heart wouldn't pound faster as I hugged him goodbye in the same way it did a year-and-a-half ago after coffee, before I ever knew how head over heels I'd be -- in just a little while.
I lied to myself when I told him I wanted to be friends, and that I missed him, but not That Way, but I just Did, and he agreed.
That's what human beings do -- fucking liars!
Cameras tell the truth, and my camera captured a story on film that's gonna break my darkroom heart, one print at a time, and each photo on the wall Wednesday is going to expose a secret, and I'll be there, naked on the street -- powerless -- all over again.
Labels: Breaking Up, Photography
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Last Night
The best part of my entire day was doing nothing. Doing nothing except one of the most important things one needs to do in order to exist. To exist on some level where you can deal with everything, and be part of it, and allow it to be part of you.
Last night, the best part of my night was lying on the couch with Nikki and talking about nothing and everything and letting our streams of consciousness run and listening and offering thoughts back and forth.
She just moved to her new apartment, and it's nice and cozy, but she doesn't have electricity yet, you know, that whole five business day thing, so it was cold and rainy outside, and dark and cold inside, with the exception of a blanket we shared and a couple of battery-powered lamps her father gave her.
We bundled up on her couch across from each other, and covered up, huddling with the pillows, and just let our minds unwind.
Nikki and I have seen each other through so much. We've loved each other; we've hated it each other. We've been roommates, we've fought; we've ordered pizza and french fries and watched Smallville episodes one after another; we've spent entire days drinking scotch; we've read each other our poetry; we've cried together about boys; we've gone out to Chapultey and split Nachos and a veggie burger so we could have the best of both worlds; we've shared an umbrella; we've taken substances together and acted a fool, making stories in the present we could laugh about in the future; we've confided in each other about so many things; we've encouraged each other; we call each other up just to see how life is going; we once were in a band together, and every time I play an open mic she is there to cheer me on; we talk about all our dreams and fears and idiosyncrasies; we've talked about the worst things we've ever done, and the worst things we've ever thought; we've forgiven each other for things when we could not even forgive ourselves; we remind each other that we are human even when we are feeling the most painful measures of what it is to be human; we've had coffee and tea, and spent entire days watching crime shows or the history channel; and we're there for each other no matter what.
No matter what. That is the point we have gotten to. The kind of love that is like family. It IS family. It's a feeling of intimacy and history and love that is almost too much to comprehend, because this kind of thing can seem so inevitable and simple yet bigger than ourselves.
What is it in the universe that brings some people together, and what is it about human beings that makes us need it so much, even in times when we want to deny it from ourselves.
I felt so grateful for life and my friends, and love in every sense that it comes to you in life. And what a lucky thing it is for any number of people to get to know each other that well, and to still be interested, and caring and compassionate, taking in all the good and bad with an indescribable empathy and acceptance so beyond wonder it is as much a miracle as it is a fact. A fact worth remembering, seeking, and finding over and over again, because these little discoveries, as Nikki once said, are what keep us so young through all the many lives we lead.
The best part of my entire day was doing nothing. Doing nothing except one of the most important things one needs to do in order to exist. To exist on some level where you can deal with everything, and be part of it, and allow it to be part of you.
Last night, the best part of my night was lying on the couch with Nikki and talking about nothing and everything and letting our streams of consciousness run and listening and offering thoughts back and forth.
She just moved to her new apartment, and it's nice and cozy, but she doesn't have electricity yet, you know, that whole five business day thing, so it was cold and rainy outside, and dark and cold inside, with the exception of a blanket we shared and a couple of battery-powered lamps her father gave her.
We bundled up on her couch across from each other, and covered up, huddling with the pillows, and just let our minds unwind.
Nikki and I have seen each other through so much. We've loved each other; we've hated it each other. We've been roommates, we've fought; we've ordered pizza and french fries and watched Smallville episodes one after another; we've spent entire days drinking scotch; we've read each other our poetry; we've cried together about boys; we've gone out to Chapultey and split Nachos and a veggie burger so we could have the best of both worlds; we've shared an umbrella; we've taken substances together and acted a fool, making stories in the present we could laugh about in the future; we've confided in each other about so many things; we've encouraged each other; we call each other up just to see how life is going; we once were in a band together, and every time I play an open mic she is there to cheer me on; we talk about all our dreams and fears and idiosyncrasies; we've talked about the worst things we've ever done, and the worst things we've ever thought; we've forgiven each other for things when we could not even forgive ourselves; we remind each other that we are human even when we are feeling the most painful measures of what it is to be human; we've had coffee and tea, and spent entire days watching crime shows or the history channel; and we're there for each other no matter what.
No matter what. That is the point we have gotten to. The kind of love that is like family. It IS family. It's a feeling of intimacy and history and love that is almost too much to comprehend, because this kind of thing can seem so inevitable and simple yet bigger than ourselves.
What is it in the universe that brings some people together, and what is it about human beings that makes us need it so much, even in times when we want to deny it from ourselves.
I felt so grateful for life and my friends, and love in every sense that it comes to you in life. And what a lucky thing it is for any number of people to get to know each other that well, and to still be interested, and caring and compassionate, taking in all the good and bad with an indescribable empathy and acceptance so beyond wonder it is as much a miracle as it is a fact. A fact worth remembering, seeking, and finding over and over again, because these little discoveries, as Nikki once said, are what keep us so young through all the many lives we lead.
Labels: Friendship, Relationships, Smallville
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Hearts Gravitate
I miss people. Goddamn, I really, really do. I miss a lot of people. For some, it's a new missing. For others, it's old. And sometimes you can miss someone when he or she is right next to you, while others it can take months or years and years until it sneaks up on you like some horrible flu you can't shake.
Sometimes the missing can take hold of you so tight you don't know what to do with yourself.
Otherwise, it's just thoughts.
It's funny about people, connecting, disconnecting, and misconnecting. Because things are always so seemingly different from what meets the eye.
Like time, and how its relative. I'm learning about Einstein's theory of special relativity. It's tricky ... a sidebar, but not.
My heart hurts this moment, and I'm probably listening to the wrong music, but goddamn, sometimes you just need to feel, you know? Sometimes you can be so far past denial that you've come around the other end, like all the way around some Mobius Strip, and you've met yourself, and you're all inside out and queasy, but you are only you, same one in the mirror, nothing on the outside has changed but your insides are all flipped around, changed forever.
For what seems like forever ...
And sometimes forever means later, and sometimes forever means someday, and sometimes forever only means until tomorrow, and it's percentage-wise so hard to tell which is which.
I'm not sad, actually. Only when I think about this, I guess. Only it's even sadder that I've moved past sadness and denial to acceptance, and I cannot tell if that's a form of giving up or being realistic.
Time. All you need is time. All you need is time. All you nee-eed is ... time.
You know what's funny? How lyrics can enter your brain, or some song or quote like it's your own for only a few seconds, and how suddenly you come back into the world from wherever you've been and you realize they weren't your words at all ... another sidebar.
God, I've been thinking about last words a lot, last words that weren't known to be the last words, and neurotic tendencies and the neverending struggle for who gets the last words, and how sometimes last words are not words at all but silence, or sentiments, or memories repeating like songs, over and over.
Missing hurts so much. Right or wrong, it does. Sometimes you can miss someone and it's okay, because things are so much better, and you know they wouldn't be better if you were in any situation different from missing them.
Maybe that's where time comes in; it does help heal a little -- distance, and time.
I think everyone has them, though. I really do; even if they are just lying in the back of your brain taking a nap they are there to be woken up with the smallest, most random reminder.
I'm so tired. I'm so tired of missing. And suddenly I wonder what we really miss. The person, or the part of ourselves they brought out into the air never to be seen or heard from again.
(Then again, what's the difference?)
I think that's percentages too. Because people come along as much as they go, but the pieces always create a different picture, don't they?
It's fascinating, and bittersweet, all the same.
I miss people. Goddamn, I really, really do. I miss a lot of people. For some, it's a new missing. For others, it's old. And sometimes you can miss someone when he or she is right next to you, while others it can take months or years and years until it sneaks up on you like some horrible flu you can't shake.
Sometimes the missing can take hold of you so tight you don't know what to do with yourself.
Otherwise, it's just thoughts.
It's funny about people, connecting, disconnecting, and misconnecting. Because things are always so seemingly different from what meets the eye.
Like time, and how its relative. I'm learning about Einstein's theory of special relativity. It's tricky ... a sidebar, but not.
My heart hurts this moment, and I'm probably listening to the wrong music, but goddamn, sometimes you just need to feel, you know? Sometimes you can be so far past denial that you've come around the other end, like all the way around some Mobius Strip, and you've met yourself, and you're all inside out and queasy, but you are only you, same one in the mirror, nothing on the outside has changed but your insides are all flipped around, changed forever.
For what seems like forever ...
And sometimes forever means later, and sometimes forever means someday, and sometimes forever only means until tomorrow, and it's percentage-wise so hard to tell which is which.
I'm not sad, actually. Only when I think about this, I guess. Only it's even sadder that I've moved past sadness and denial to acceptance, and I cannot tell if that's a form of giving up or being realistic.
Time. All you need is time. All you need is time. All you nee-eed is ... time.
You know what's funny? How lyrics can enter your brain, or some song or quote like it's your own for only a few seconds, and how suddenly you come back into the world from wherever you've been and you realize they weren't your words at all ... another sidebar.
God, I've been thinking about last words a lot, last words that weren't known to be the last words, and neurotic tendencies and the neverending struggle for who gets the last words, and how sometimes last words are not words at all but silence, or sentiments, or memories repeating like songs, over and over.
Missing hurts so much. Right or wrong, it does. Sometimes you can miss someone and it's okay, because things are so much better, and you know they wouldn't be better if you were in any situation different from missing them.
Maybe that's where time comes in; it does help heal a little -- distance, and time.
I think everyone has them, though. I really do; even if they are just lying in the back of your brain taking a nap they are there to be woken up with the smallest, most random reminder.
I'm so tired. I'm so tired of missing. And suddenly I wonder what we really miss. The person, or the part of ourselves they brought out into the air never to be seen or heard from again.
(Then again, what's the difference?)
I think that's percentages too. Because people come along as much as they go, but the pieces always create a different picture, don't they?
It's fascinating, and bittersweet, all the same.
Labels: Bloc Party, Change, Relationships
