October 2

I cannot sleep again. It is 4:08 am, and I have class at from 8:30 am to 6:00 pm tomorrow.

It is undeniable, this time of year is on my mind.

I have come a very long way from last year. I have learned some things. I have packed memories away. Losing Rachael is something I will never completely recover from. Losing her, and not knowing why, is even more difficult.

I loved her as much as I have ever really loved anyone.

She taught me some things, and maybe not lovely things, but important none-the-less. Of course they go against all my tendencies of fostering relationships that are real, but it is realistic to at least consider:

• There is no one who you can put all your self in without risking losing too much if they ever decide to leave.
  
• Anyone can leave/be taken at any time.
• Can you still be whole after they do?

I am not ever going to write about this again.

Love, and War, and I *

Sometimes we

understand that one cannot be

without the others.

I stepped out alone with just Love

and was constantly looking over my shoulder

waiting for War to come looking for us.

so then I became merely afraid, and realized this wouldn't do,

so joined up with War, hoping this would bring peace.

But all War and I ever did was wait, hoping that just being together,

Love would appear.

But whenever War was around, all we talked about was Love coming someday,

but Love never arrived.

so I tried leaving Love and War to their own antics, and wandered about alone,

with nothing to fight for, nothing to fear, nothing to hope for, nothing warring or loving in me.

Ah, but this was impossible,

what is left, then,

without the tearings of these?

*Shameless title adapted from Avett Brothers

micro vs. macro

people sleep on the streets, he said. “It’s not very hygienic.”

maybe if the dirt or steps, broken marble or broken concrete

or whole brick

was scrubbed with bleach

and her hair was cleaned, and she smelled like mangoes and jasmine

and her clothes wrapped more neatly around the thin of her waist

maybe

if the dirt was swept vigorously away (always so gentle, our attempts to sweep you away)

our attentions would drift from bones and flesh and

the hair matted neatly to the side of your face--

and we would realize there is more broken here.

If every human life is created and designed, each person is a short story or chapter in who the person of God is.

Who you are to me, is God choosing to be vulnerable.


I am not affected by the criticism of my mind, my body, my choices. I haven't really had my feelings hurt for awhile (back to that odd observational tendency).


But when you said all you want is another day like the day you felt wanted, it broke my heart.



I cannot tell you how much you deserve, and how little you settle for.

You, who are infinitely precious, you who have been robbed of what should have always been yours--

You, who are a chapter written by the God I love,


How little you want, and how little you accept, and how much more you deserve.

Cost benefit analysis pt II

I have a peculiar numb feeling, which I am unaccustomed to.

Observational, almost. The anthropologists would be proud.

I have taken up smoking clove cigarettes on my rooftop, with my nerdy headphones and loud music (unhappy cilia everywhere). Very un-me. Cancer. Public Health. Not something that can continue too long unfortunately. The neighbors must think I am odd and deeply hypocritical.

But I like them. I like the sweet spicy smell.

I like the air, and swirling, and light, and the way the light mixes with the smoke-- and the way the smoke burns my lungs, and the way it swirls again and disappears into the sky as I breathe it out slowly and deliberately.

This numb feeling-- odd. I don't mind it. Watching my skin get cold, or my body get hungry. Watching my mind get tired, bored. Watching my lungs breathing.

There is the temptation to remain exactly this way. Feeling numb? This could be powerful. There is some freedom to this that I have not ever had.


I have always known I am all or nothing, and have not much experimented with this other extreme.

I believe in deep joy, peace, happiness-- but you have to decide what you want and there are consequences to indecisiveness; and there are consequences to passion. I have to decide if it is worth it (of course I know the answer, I would hope).

(knowing isn't the same as deciding).

cost-benefit analysis.

My dreams (the real ones, not the metaphorical ones)

are filled with horrifying things.

I explain this, when I mean just to keep mouth shut and listen.

Instead, I start explaining how I am awake and aware and it is terrifying to know you are only dreaming, and that there is a whole world you can control when you sleep.

You smile and nod and I know I should really stop (it is a bit strange after all).

But I cannot stop. Dream after dream recorded in my head like vivid and terrible memories;
-- I know -- you must be thinking: This one's a little strange.

Except, you like me more for this. And I like you less because--who likes such strange people?

The night used to be a friendly place,
and the faster that we drove along whatever road we decided to take,
the faster my mind raced, and I was only happy that you were driving
(I get lost).

The air stayed fresh and we were anything but suffocated.
and I rolled the window down, and you turned the music up,
and we decided if this would never end, we could be happy, maybe.

So I held my breath and turned blue, and you swerved because you thought maybe I would hold my breath too long--
-- (it's a biological reflex to keep breathing I said)

but you never believed me.

Today it rained, and I heard the sounds on my rooftop, and I was content.
I heard your song,
and I held my breath,
and I was happy, maybe.

(I get lost).

There is a way you glow,
wrapped in sheets (entwined in them).

Pale and thin, the skin is delicately translucent,
like you are about to break out of whatever shell it is you are confined to.

Collective memory tells us we too will be old, --but time, there is so much time (you always say to me).

I hate to disenchant you with this: ah, my dear, there is not.

Don't let this shock you, I see it even now. The beginnings in your eyes, it is harder now to ignore. Why do you always look so tired?

Why are you always watching me? It is hard sometimes to know the difference between what is me and what is this empty dying thing. Where does it end, and I begin? What are you looking at after all?

This empty, dying thing is beautiful (you always say to me) but,
I know it is only a failing thing,

and I am only more and more aware of the confines of what a body has to offer, however brilliant.

When the window is open, and there are noises from this or that town, I hope that I will at least remember this--

and I hope that you will remain unafraid.