Friday, June 4, 2010

Just Don't Turn On Me, Love.

I can't sleep.
And what do I do when I can't sleep?

The only thing that makes sense:
I write.

Tonight was good.
And then it was weird.
And right now, it's struggling to be okay.
Barely keeping it's head above water.
Although, that's not really fair.

Disappointment is, in a word, disappointing.
Investing to find no return; waiting to find no completion.
Loving to an end result of loss.

And so what do you do?
Especially after the fifth, or sixth, or seventh, or seventeenth time.

I suppose you learn to take your own advice:

"But trust is only rebuilt through the act or trusting.
It is a verb- ever moving, ever growing, ever changing shapes and forms.
Should we become stagnant, there is much to be missed.
In others, yes, but especially within ourselves.

Though we may feel that we've been had, we must stare at ourselves and our damage long enough to see that it was our pure and honest hearts that caused us to be so easily deceived in the first place.
And if I am to be known as naive, then I will be known as naive in my ability to over-love; sometimes to the detriment of myself.
But I do not stop loving in response.
I do not stop trusting in reponse.
I do not stop giving in response.

I love deeper, I trust further, give longer.
Because it was of no fault of my own that I was deceived.
And to carry that deception with me as a part of myself is to know myself as something that I am not, nor will ever be."

It's been a while since I've written in red.

A friend sent something stunning to me the other day.
She is incredible, a better person than I could ever hope to be, and I am better for knowing her.
She's one of those people who, when you don't want to be around anyone else, she's who you want to talk to. At least for me. When I'm at my most insane, I think of her immediately and know she would understand whatever the hell would come out of my mouth.
Anyway, though, her heart is vibrant and beautiful, but recently broken.
And the thought of that makes my stomach churn in disgust.
Here was her reaction:

"there is a chance that I am wallowing.  all that sounds appealing is sleeping today.  from 9,10,11... all good for sleeping.  I got out of bed knowing that when I got home, I could go back to sleep.  it is a constant fight and I am not sure against what.  but I know that I don't want to write an exeutive summary or any sort of business plan.  I just want to write a letter.


I hope this letter finds you well. I just wrote to say fuck you. I hope the sun is shining and the clouds are light and fluffy, and in reading this letter your day turns to shit.  I hope that your eyes are soft as you follow the my sweet, sincere lines, suddenly breaking into little pieces that slide and slice down through your head, filling your ears and throat with stinging warm blood, thoroughly burning and trapping you in a moment that you already regret.  You don't have a choice but to read what is written to you, right? 

Fuck you.  I hope you become so very familiar with the feelings that long for resolution just so the pain will stop and learn to feel all the numbing death that ensues when that which has words to heal refuses to speak."

If you're at all wondering what I'm trying to say with all of this, just come and sit down next to me as we both try and stare our way through this complete and utter mess.

Just promise me one thing, alright?

Just don't turn on me, love.

Don't turn on me now.

No comments: