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Drained, finally. It caught with me. Too many days filled with people and true social interactions, not the fake kind.. My heart and body disconnected today. If I had went to her then I would have been fine. But I needed this day of rest, bittersweet as it was. The best part was when I walked the dog and realized that I am, or was right then, the old me, The me I know and loved, The one that was Always there. I was sullen, morose, and fucking content. Feelings are quite odd when you sit and pick them apart.
Existentialism. The universe is absurd with no intrinsic value or purpose and no set standards for choices and individual standards. How can anything be wrong in the eyes of an existentialist? No matter what choice is made it should be right, one way or the other. If it's your own then it's yours. Life is your own responsibility. Organisms that are more complex come from lesser complex organisms. God doesnít exist; we are higher than God. The world arrived from a random event. There was enough empty time for some spontaneous once in 3 billion years thing to have occurred.
The sun was just a red ember among the trees. Together we watched the closing of yet another beautifully miraculous day. Words are not always needed in moments such as these. Pictures speak a thousand words of love and adoration. Anyone can see my eyes and see that a physical change has been made. My heart is altered, forever and eternally. Your eyes begin my day like the stunning sunrise that you are and every goodnight sends waves of goodness into my tired soul. You awaken my senses and make me feel that life is worth living. This is it.
How great of a concept is it to sit and know that there is in fact somebody out there currently thinking about you. How strange to know that you are in the constant state of knowing what this one other person is currently doing. What was life prior to this? I existed without this, entirely. Imagine if we never found each other? Things could be as they were. Instead they are very different and infinitely better. The future may be as unstable as a comets surface, but I have never been more anxious to see it fly before my eyes.
Twenty-seven days old today. Four weeks tomorrow. Still pristine in nature. Seeming more mortal. I adjust to the idea of being called
My worry is of it being taken away. Everything dies. Such morbidity, but it is my world, my head. It is real; it is my life. Natural disasters happen all the time. The normal people donít think about these things. I am far from normal. I am far too logical and practical to be normal. Anxiety comes in waves of wishing for him to talk already. I want to conversate with my new best friend for life.
A lawn mower hacking away next-door Ė hacking a summers worth of misuse Ė was all I could think about. Fixated on destruction, turmoil and upheaval: long over due since long ago abandonment. Worlds thrash into each other. Then questions arise.
one wonders as the noise increases from its nearing presence. Metal hitting metal, possibly melding into one, or breaking Ė Snap. Upon us now, louder, where will it end? when? I envision gold leaves from ember red stalks falling to the earth in amber glows of fiery yellow. A whirlwind of emotions, wrapped in splendor, coating my heart and soul.
He felt a tremendous weariness in his bones. Life beats upon vacant hearts, urging them to cease. But the weary tend to survive, though they know not why. It would not be any time soon that he would learn the answer to his unasked question. But the day will indeed come. He will accept it with open arms despite previous years of inner protest. How can anyone other than a psychic know what one needs until the time is upon them? Pent up pain forces him to push the world away. The future, he believes, couldnít possibly hold anything better.
How bad does this class suck? Let me count the ways. No, instead let me describe, in detail, the appearance of the girl sitting in the front row to my immediate left. Her favorite color, I recognized from the very first day Ė is red. Red, pink and black. Today is the epitome of her trying to showcase her personality. Her hair is short though much longer than mine. Pig tails on top using one red and one lime green hair tie. Large black earrings with a smiley face carved out. A short, red corduroy skirt with black leggings. Good God.
Oh. A tingle of missing her courses through my innards, incomparable to the ache of losing a father. Not yet a day and a half apart and while destined to see her very soon, the void consumes. I write this while delaying the process of going to her. I enjoy anticipation? Iíve never been easily excitable, so I think that to me, these are my intentional moments of satisfaction Ė felt but not fully seen. A part of me wishes to crunch through these 100 words to hasten the process. But in my heart I know that a lifetime lasts forever.
They gathered in shocked sympathy. Death had always felt like a mockery of all we do toward day-to-day living. Why bother through the drudgery when it is swept away so swiftly. Silently creeping through our systems like a thief through a large chain store. Or a tornado nit picking one house over the next similar home. Those who seek a rhyme or reason are sadly misled. Repudiation toward the one inevitable life force is a futile hope. All thatís left is to dream and to hope that tomorrow finds us well. If it finds me with her I am good.
September eleventh. Sure, Iíll write about, for once. Six years ago today I had slept until one in the afternoon. I woke and turned the TV on because at that time I was accustomed to watching a particular soap opera every day. Disappointment set in with the sound of a newscaster showing no signs of reprieve. I had no idea what was going on. Images surfaced and I grasped nothing. I only wanted to watch my show, my only concern. I was angry. Then I sat and watched for ten minutes. Finally it hit me, like planes hitting the towers.
How is it possible that every day we spend together (which is basically every day) gets better and better. With her I am never bored, lost or incomplete. She makes me all the things Iíve always longed to be. Words are incapable of making sense of this form of happiness. She very well might be the forever girl. One can hope, right? She makes me better. She makes it easy to get out of bed in the morning. My future has never looked so damn appealing. Between her and the baby, my life is chock full of love. Real love.
The baby seems to be growing every single day. Even still, itís unfathomable to think that he will age. He will continue to grow. Heís learning new things. At a month old I am certain that he recognizes me and my voice. Today he lay in my bed and started crying. I entered the room and talked to him. Without picking him up he instantly calmed. My voice soothed him.
feel better. He makes me feel better. Talking to him, conversing with him will be the ultimate pinnacle of life. He means the whole world to me.
Deep seas of inert thought drown me. Silence stifles the senses. And then school. School drains that final drop of blood from the failing system of all that used to work aptly. A new routine is in order, but change has never fit me well. I resist change like the environment resists pollution. Yeah, thatís right. Alteration is my contamination. Mind flows cease like water during the dry season Ė waiting ever so patiently for reprieve. Where oh where has the muse escaped to? Was she ever real, could it have been a dream, or perhaps a once a lifetime fluke.
Her girly suede boots reach more than half way up her calf. Her right wrist bears crazy cheap looking bead bracelets, one light red the other multi colored (though hardly a rainbow). She wears a coily looking red necklace. Has she robbed a five year olds jewelry box? She just dropped her pencil, her childish looking pencil. She is the one I disputed pluralism with in my group. Our personalities do not mesh. She guessed my age to being 18, I laughed. I guessed her age at 18 and was correct. The woman with children is who keeps me sane.
It often hurts more than other times. I have moments. The most obscure statement can make me want to cry rivers. In a movie a father says
I love you
to his daughter. My eyes secretly water. I no longer remember his voice. There is no remembrance of hearing my father say, for the first and only time,
I love you.
Was it real? Have I dreamt it all? Is my one deathbed I love you a farce made up in my mind in order to attempt to carry on? How could I have lost so much by losing him?
There is a void within my soul. The bottom of this void holds the grief I used to embrace dear to my aching heart. I see her face, hear her voice; think of her boundless love and the pain subsides. He must have sent her to me?
Despite the relief she unknowingly provides, there are moments where the hurt overwhelmingly resides within my outer most regions. It creeps from below. I mourn like no other while trying to maintain the faÁade that so many have come to expect. My eyes water when the world momentarily turns away.
I miss him.
Somewhere between entering route 72 and the exit for the Howard Johnson roadway, I decide to play hooky. The one responsibility I hold and I decide to forgo it. Unsure why, I knew this needed to be done. It wonít happen again, at least it really shouldnít. But who can say for sure? Who can say anything at all these days? Iíve no idea what the future will hold. We all know what we would like to see, but how often are the puny humans granted reprieve and given what they so desire? Right, not often enough to count on.
ĒI canít read that book; animals die.Ē
Her empathy soothes me. At one with each and every creature, I want to coddle her pains and massage her soul. If she never feels another ounce of pain then I could rest easy. The world is a torturous place. Let me protect and shield her, the one I want to live for. My heart bleeds in the shape of pink hearts. With her there are no pink elephants to ignore. Conversation is abundant, and speaking of that which matters most is what we do best. Communication must really be key.
The Earth has stopped spinning. Perhaps it has only begun rotation once more after a momentary lapse. Chaos ensued. Things were moving so fast, yet nowhere near fast enough. Time stood still, suspended in thin air. Everything all at once. Accumulating, culminating. And then the stick in the spokes of the back tire. All the world stops. Time restarts and life is suddenly realistic. Where had I been? Where am I? It feels weird to be home. Nothing has been the same since I met her. Itís better, albeit unrealistic. It feels unreal. Home really is where the heart is.
Death roars in through cloud breaks. Sun seeps onto mourners like rain onto a dry riverbed. If the end must come, does it have to be anytime soon? Canít we hold it off, just a little longer? Remember when he promised me more months of life? I believed his lies, malicious attempts to soothe my pending broken heart. If only he knew how deep my intentions were. Would he have stayed longer? Will she? Who can promise anybody tomorrow? God is never around to tell us when it is time. We enter and exit this world much the same: scared.
The cats stare at me with a sense of malice. From them I have stolen the attention of the one they adore Ė my current fulcrum of adoration. Our worlds rest on her shoulders. The higher ups never realize their potential to destroy. And then, as I sit here and worry about the best interest of her animals my own dog waits at home for me. A futile wait for he wonít see me until day. While I still see him everyday I am painfully aware of how I used to be the only one he saw
day. His world.
This is the first time I have not had my words done for the dawning of the first. I ruined the whole month. And then I ruined it for her because I read her words before she was done the writing. I have failed her and the whole month. I am failing all around. And soon I will be flailing, trying to keep my head above water and hope for a B in the class I most loathe. Elsewhere I miss out. Words fail me the way that I fail them. Inspiration is a thing of the past. Muse who?
Caught a cold and cried about dad. My vulnerability made me keen to my true weakness. Missing him comes natural. The baby cuddled with me and we wailed together, alone. Oddly enough, my father loved babies. He certainly did not look like the type. He was a mean bastard, but just like the rest of us he had a soft spot. Who couldnít love such an innocent and pristine life form? They hold such potential. And in the end, I canít help but be aware of where he too shall end up. My dad would greet him with open arms.
At this point I have more missed entries than written ones. My journal suffers due to happiness. How many days, in how many ways, can I write about how I have found the epitome of perfection in this one girl. Love sometimes feels like an understatement. Everyday with her feels like a gift. Seriously, I believe she helped to hang the moon. How could I ever ask for anything more? There exists none better. And my home, this place where my belongs stay, it no longer feels like
I fear Iíve become dependant on her. What if she leaves?
Suppose this is the whirlwind that is real living. What kind of fool would let this slide by without serious consideration? Naturally, serious thought of it all has led to the decision that has been made, practically set in stone. Time moves faster. This shall happen now or later on. Why not sooner? The time will sneak up as I hold my breath and wait to hit the lottery. I am the ultimate cause of it all. The consequences will be handled, whether the outcome is bad or good. It takes an existentialist to make a true leap of faith.
What was once a motivating factor in life has now become a mere presence forever lingering in the sidelines where things rest when one knows that it shall remain forever broken. What motivates my existence now is the one thing that I always thought I could live without, the thing I swore I never truly needed. I pushed it far and wide, laughing every time it went away. Never could I admit to wanting it. Now that Iíve got
how could I ever live without her? Perhaps it would happen in the same manner that I survive without him?
Dear black Good Bye.
Yet another twenty eighth. One more and that unspeakable date will be upon us, choking me.
As for now, at this point in time, everything is as great on this 28th as it was on the previous 28th. And tomorrow, the 29th, will mark a happier anniversary. Then, the 29th after that unspeakable 28th will mark another happy anniversary. If I ever were to get married, I think that I would like for it to be on an October 28th. Seriously. How else will I ever be able to attribute something happy to the number 28?
Things should have felt special, on this our holy day. Instead, we woke without recognition of the days date and I went to work, my first day of work. I came home to you and didnít expect anything special, but had hoped for somethingÖ for at least some mention of it. It meant something to me. At night, as you cleaned the cat boxes, I asked if you remembered what today was. You said you did, it was the 29th, our holy day. You asked how the day had been for me. I said fine, or something. Happy one month.
Distance worries me. Itís not physical distance, because that is virtually non-existent. It is the sudden and violent emotional distance that pains me. I worry intensely. Is it me? Have I done something? Have I changed? Have the things I warned you about finally caught up and now you find yourself questioning us? My love has not changed, it has only deepened. Do you feel it? You say youíve stopped feeling love. What does that mean? What have I done? Can I fix this before itís too late? Will you wake up changed just as you have seemingly awoken broken?
The Tip Jar