So I sit here alone …finally alone, and it hits me. I hate being alone. I’ve loved it for so many years, loved the freedom of just me and my own walls, me and my own thoughts, but my thoughts have turned to a season of gray skies and I can no longer stand to be alone with them. The thoughts I used to find entertaining, are no more than ghosts in the night, spooking me whenever they need some amusement. Torturing me with the past, the gray sky present, and the future which I’m not sure I want to see. I’m afraid I have forgotten how to love. Forgotten how to fall, forgotten how to breathe. I laugh more these days, partly because I do not know how else to survive, and partly because I just feel I’m a visitor, and guests should always have a good time. I’m afraid I know no feeling greater than lust, and afraid that perhaps I do. I feel abandoned and betrayed. I feel homeless, a wanderer with no movement. I can remember and nearly feel the feel of “home,” yet I can’t go there. I’m so tired of falling apart and so tired of picking up the pieces. Perhaps I shall just leave them there on the floor, and go find better pieces somewhere else. I’m scared of everything, and yet nothing at all. When you’ve already lost it all, what else is left to take? Damaged much? No, more like scrap metalled. The days get longer and my tears are frozen. I’ve pleaded and I’ve begged, I’ve screamed, I’ve cried more tears than I thought possible, I’ve been angry, I’ve been hurt, I’ve been numb. It all brings me back to this. Sitting here staring at the wall, pleading with God that I will wake up from this nightmare. I never wake up. So I sit here and listen to this love song that brings me back to a love story that never happened. A love story that really only existed in my head, but brings me back those butterflies that I’m afraid I will never find again….
It was certainly winter, right before Christmas, and the snow was falling from the sky as me and a dear friend walked home from a night out. It’s the only moment I have ever truly felt alive. I could feel each snowflake hit my skin, feel it melt into my body. I could feel his lips on mine, but I could see the snow falling, see each distinct pattern each flake held, even though my eyes were closed. I could smell the winter, could smell the cold, could feel the warmth of another body next to me, through the layers of winter coats. I felt so alive. I could feel the warmth of my home, the love of a family, the beautifulness of a season I so truly hate. I could feel for a moment what true love felt like, what pure bliss was. I wasn’t in love with him, I was infatuated with the moment, my mind was finally quiet, a quiet that I have never had. My senses had taken over, and I was living fully, through each detail, through each second that passed. I could feel each line on his lips, could feel the butterflies of the innocence of the moment. The kind of nervousness that takes over you during your first kiss, yet this wasn’t my first kiss, it was an awakening of the magic that life can have. The magic that comes from never knowing when those butterflies might find you again, from not knowing what the next moment will have in store for you. I find whenever the sadness takes over me, when the burden of my life is becoming to great to bear, I put that song on the radio and I drift back to that moment in time. If I felt it once, my God, I will surely find it again. It’s the hope of that magic that makes me want to see tomorrow, gives me hope that there is still magic to be found. That moment makes me crave snowflakes in the summer. I look back in my old writings, and I find this story, retold in so many different ways, whenever my path became darkened. It’s the story of my true salvation, my first rite in becoming human so to speak.
I had forgotten how calming writing is. My thoughts make so much more sense on paper than they do in my head. To light some candles, put some music in minor on, and just release everything that keeps me from believing, that keeps me from living. If only I could find a love affair as fulfilling as a piece of paper and a pen. If only a lover could help me slow down time and catch every detail, every moment, every movement the way a pen can. It’s when I write that I realize I’m not crazy. I realize I’m far too deep than my own brain can comprehend. I realize my soul doesn’t belong here, that it’s trapped. I realize that perhaps maybe my soul should be the one guiding me through life, as I know not the way. I fear perhaps I have become so lost, I’ll never find my way home again. I too fear, that this is perhaps where I belong, lost in sorrow, drowning in tears, yet so numb inside. So fearful to be loved, so fearful to experience that night of snowflakes all over again, as perhaps it would be too much to bear.
XO All yours,