and I really feel like it's going to work.
I prefer the days when I want to say, "screw you, realists!" to the days when I am the realist.
there are signs everywhere. The one at the top of my list is that though we're both going places, neither of us is going anywhere.
and for now, I will steep in that optimistic certainty.
screw you, realists!
:)
Though I am no Englishman, I will soon be a legal alien in New York.
Don't think of it as me leaving you. I chose NYC over Bremen, Germany, so there's something to be thankful for, eh?
Think of it as the greatest city in the world becoming more accessible; starting August sometime-or-other, there will be a person there--living day in and out, opening a Starbucks, grocery shopping, laundromatting, running in the rain, riding the metro--who loves and misses you.
I wish I had someone in New York who loves me. I guess I'll have to take who I find and make it happen!
"Distance is to love what wind is to fire; it kills what's fickle, but strengthens what's real."
[image courtesy of Le Love]
[title lyric courtesy of LCD Soundsystem]
[I found this in my journal from a little bit ago. Free material!]
lilted hopes fall from last week's roses,
--overcome by foolish necessity,
varnished with melted fantasy--
endlessly stripped by midnight's fear.
lingering are the echoes of inevitability
across phone lines, hallways, borders
--never quite geared for cake and china,
garnished with buttercream and lost replies,
upstaged by a decrepit gardener--
awaiting a flower's leap of faith.
glowing embers of compatibility
extinguish, making room for dawn.
"In this state I shall not remain."
Not only does it rain on the just and unjust alike,
it rains on the Swiss and Australian alike,
the coal miners and CEOs.
And I can't know for sure because I was not in both places at once,
but I'm pretty sure the rain is bigger in North Carolina.
Bullet big.
I like being awake and alone until the playlist reminds me of how alone I could not be.
I'm building things by myself, and that's why they're falling apart. My brothers and sisters in Christ imagine my place in the kingdom to be crucial. In the depths of my psyche, from my tailbone to my toes -- I can feel the same thing. We're all crucial. But on the end of my cruciality I still tag "eventually." And I pray. And I pray and I pray. And I listen. And I smile.
Warning: Uncertain, angsty, love-ridden, midnight-produced musings to follow.
I spend a lot of time planning my independence, which makes me feel like I've been inwardly independent for some time now.
I'm trying not to plan so much and to pray more. Mostly because worrying as much as I've let myself is not healthy. Plus I trust God more than I do me, which is always a good place to be in.
If I spend enough time away from someone, I can usually convince myself that I don't miss them anymore. After a while, I remember why I feel so helpless.
New favorite song: "Details In the Fabric" by Jason Mraz.
Maybe someday I'll meet someone who would write a song for me.
I place myself on a lower tier than the beauty I find all around me. Maybe that's how I assure that I'll always humbly work towards beauty and appreciate what's naturally beautiful.
I've created a playlist that will get me through heartbreak. Jeez, I hope it will.
I got really close this one day to deciding that I have the ability to let go of my heart and let it feel what it feels, as deep as it can. I felt as though I was knowingly throwing it off of a cliff. I reined it back in.
life's shiny veneer
peels away like
pop apricot on a
left hand thumb.
eraser shavings sprinkle
a flowered bedspread
because the ways i
share don't work.
with cryptic messages
and honest actions
i convey what i promised
myself i'd teach you.
i'd teach you there's
nothing to learn.
that you're doing it right
and that what scares you doesn't hurt.
because the pink i chipped
reveals a blank slate
and the parts of me
left best black and white.
no glossy masks,
no neon colors.
and this is black and white:
there's no turning back.
melted hershey kisses
transfer palms
because he likes the
way she swings
on chilly playground days.
she steals his scissors
then cuts a heart of pink
crudely but cutely
and in black crayola
scrawls
"you are my friend
and i'll love you
today and tomorrow."
the crumpled pink promise
sends him to sleep each night,
for he knows that with each today she's loved him
comes a tomorrow left to love.
My life is changing.
***
My music and words
and your words
and their words
and books
and Bible
the people and places and things
and ideas
the actions
the tears and smiles
the laughter.
My life is changing...
You are changing my life.
Everything and Everyone I have ever known,
...is changing my life.
I am seeing more than I ever could have,
relying on more than I ever would have,
thinking of more than I ever should have.
My feet are on the ground
while my head's in the clouds,
my eyes are on your lips
while my ears tune to Dave
humming, humming...
I don't know what to feel
because I feel more than I know how to.
I don't want to choose.
I am going to live it all.
No worries--
I know what I live for
I know what I love for
I know what I learn for
and yearn for
I know where you are.
I know where you'll be.
I know where I'll be
when you want to find me.
I know where I'll cry
when you forget where we've been,
I know who I'll listen to
when I can no longer trust myself.
I know how to feel
but not how to say,
I know who to need
but not who to leave,
I knew when to look away
but not when to forgive...
forgive and forget.
I know how to sing
to myself in the dark
I know how to dance
in the shower
I know how to overuse
people
and places
and things
and ideas.
I know how to give myself too much credit,
and I know how to leave the doubt behind.
I know what it is
to feel alive.
"And what do you like to do, Lucy?"
"I like to write."
"Ah, what do you write?"
"Poetry."
Though not quite so bland and straightforward, this exchange, in some form, has worked its way into many recent conversations. After explaining to the asker (and, perhaps, to myself), "I write poetry because [fill-in-the-blank]," I found myself wondering if I do, in fact, write poetry. What is poetry? Do I give myself too much credit in labeling every stanzaed work a poem?
Who might know the answer to this question? Why, Mr. Webster, of course.
po-et-ry (n.): 1. a: Metrical writing. b: The productions of a poet. 2: Writing that formulates a concentrated, imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm. 3: Something likened to poetry especially in beauty of expression.
After discovering this, I can identify with the second choice. I write with language meant to convey an emotional response. On occasion, it is concentrated and imaginative... but does this alone constitute 'productions of a poet'? Pray tell, Mr. Webster.
po-et (n.): 1: One who writes poems; a maker of verses. 2: One (as a creative artist) of great imaginative and expressive capabilities and special sensitivity to the medium.
So far, so good. Dare I inquire further?
po-em (n.): 1: A composition in verse. 2: Something suggesting a poem (as in expressiveness, lyricism, or formal grace).
The term 'poetry' is rather subjective, as I should have known - Mr. Webster always has the hardest time with abstract nouns (he offers nine options for the word 'love', to little avail). I consider my musings poetry partly by default, but partly by personal opinion. Ultimately, the label stays.
you love her
don't you
then why
doesn't she
believe you?
take a step back
this is what
you want?
you're too good
to her
i love
your heart
i can't watch
let you watch
her
break it.
slowly i set myself apart
my lack of social competence
spurring walled introspection
i search within
to brace myself from without
my mother says she doesn't get people
their children would be no different
agreeably, she says this will never change
a specified crowd
provides momentary comfort
this is unsettling, but i understand
who could get me
other than who made me
is every interaction blissfully satisfying
ignorance is bliss
there is nothing more complex
than the pairing of people
or a friendship's niche
love is a recipe
for lack of a better metaphor
perhaps in the end
where my understanding stops
another's will begin
and comfort will be found
in their neverending questions
for another's doubt
invites the integration of mine
i tear down the walls
attempting answers
in hopes of finding my own
I wondered how it could be that closure survives on its own, independent from the persons involved. But it does.
I wrote him a letter he will never see. He won't need it -- he hasn't noticed anything for seven months.
I needed it. I needed to know I am happier alone. Technically, I was always alone. But I'm okay with that.
Perhaps I've never written a song because I am waiting for a song to be written to me. I have faith in that. Someday, I will be an inspiration. Haha. Until then..
Poetry it is.
You know, it's okay if I beat them to it. Chances are they will quickly mean more to me than I do to them, knowing my obsessive tendencies. Maybe their influence will be too important for me to ignore, and my impatience will eventually get the best of me.
I guess it's a footrace. Or a feeling race?
I don't care who wins.
"what do you want"
an inquiry commonly posed by
involved, overwhelmed persons
looking to find out as quickly as possible
AQAP
if only to offer it and be done with me
well since you're asking...
i want a new wardrobe for starters
old jeans. vintage rocker tees. my chucks.
i want too many pairs of chucks to possibly wear
i want the confidence to chop off my hair
i want a bright red Schwinn
i want a quaint apartment
with a laundry chute
i want it to look like an IKEA display
i want to be a journalist
i want to write about music
i want to listen to music professionally
i want to find my new favorite song
i want to be in a rock band
of course
the bassist
i always loved that bassist
i want to be a poet
and know it
i want to read enough poetry
to have a favorite
i want to be a favorite
i want to meet an admirer
i want to tell myself i'm worth admiring
and believe it
i want to read all the classics
and understand why it was labeled a classic..
i want to watch every 5 star movie
4 stars is okay too
i want to marry John Cusack
i want to marry?
yes. i suppose.
my self-sufficient mentality can only last so long
and that's okay
i do want love
i love to collage
i want to collect handmade wonders
i want to place my thoughts inside them
on their beautiful papers
i want another piece of college-ruled paper
music to my eyes
i want so much
and most of all
i want to be really really good
at being who i want to be
