New distance between us, you and me.

Maybe without the interruptions there would be no contemptuousness. 
Maybe without you there would be no dark, 
but there would never be any light, either. 
We could never truly find a solace in each other; 
because we are not content within ourselves. 
... And it seems to me that we tend to seek in each other the same things that we expect of ourselves. 

We project all of those distances from which, in-turn, only seem to carry us farther away from one another.
I haven't any of the answers, all I know is that I don't see my future without someone like you in it.
Which seems to be a very fragile thought in and of itself. 
Yes, there are things in life that I may want, things I may hope for, and expect; 
but for some strange, without logical reasoning - 
I come to the conclusion to settle my lies upon you.  
A daunting thought - 
But, optimistically, I like to think not as far-fetched as I sometimes imply these thoughts/ dreams/fantastical-ideas of what the future may be like. 
Without you.

I hope I haven't kept you from anything you really wanted to do... 
But I understand how these doors open, and how quickly they tend to slam shut. 
If you've gotta' go, I won't keep you much longer; heaven knows we've been encapsulating our time like it wasn't ever going to run out.

It's just that I've been wondering, how could something that took so much time, and so much energy to grow - how is it able to fade so simply? As the sun rolls off into the hills on an easy Sunday evening, dawning summer hours, and how these precious clips of time meant so much to me. -- Where do they exist though, only in my mind? Or do they exist in yours too? It's the time that I fear, It's not the pain, or the sickness. 

All I've ever wanted is more time. more daylight, more water, more sentiment, more love. I've asked for things that could never be granted. I've asked for a universe that existed with more space, more space and also more time. I seek the impossible; I'm scared  to bet on anything because I always get let down. I'm scared to commit myself to anything because everything always changes. Why bother making concrete decisions for myself when the universe has its own plans anyway? 

Last Clock on the Wall.

There's always this happy little moment; I exaggerate my usage of the word moment - because perhaps it lasts just a vast bit longer. 
Though, it rarely lasts any bit longer than your memory serves you to remind. It's that moment that stands still, when you suddenly become a super-hero, standing above ground - cape and overalls, cap and gown. You've defied yourself from every possible obstacle, you've become the very thing that you have spent a great portion of time trying to shut-out. You've been torn through - a wrecking ball came thrashing through the living room, leaving tarnish and paint chips on your great-grandmother's 80 year old area rug. Nothing could feel as triumphant than falling in love. Nothing. 
It's not as easy as it would appear to be; television, movies, books, all the media that has surfaced before your squirmy and bulging eyes over the course of your lifetime has led you to believe that falling in love with someone would be as easy as saying three, tiny yet definitive words. It isn't a process of elimination, it isn't an evacuation of jadedness, or the subtle notion of attraction to someone so captivating. It's a complete and utter overhaul of every peril you hold inside of yourself. 

So when the break comes, when the dawn bears with it foggy billows of grey, and daunting ashes of silver - You've been partial to feeling something better, something more akin to rainbows and the discovery of the unicorn. It's like the emanating of a Western summer or standing before the Continental Divide, arms wide open... 

But, yet no sooner did it arrive has it begun to create a sense of immediate danger - an arousal of impecunious emergence that can only be described as: despair. 
Without wanting, and shattered by every hopeful notion, your heart is dripping with fear and discomfort. You can't just love, you have to burn. You have to fear, and shed the skin from your bones. You have to breakdown and shake. Exasperate from the pain you can't explain, but know it will no sooner kill you than to make you feel the way you did in that very first moment of consummation. 

Well it's true - he scares me. He allures havoc on my rib cage. I'm in love with a man that will tear my heart from my fighting limbs, seam from seam. He'll discard me in a fashion that only useless people use brain-cells. He'll erase me as a fantasy and succumb to ignorance as a way to cope. I'll be nothing more than a piece of paper with misunderstood phrases and under-utilized lyrics. I'll be gone quicker than the sun, and he'll never feel it like I feel it. All of this I am certain of.  
What I am however not certain of is how do you keep trudging through something while you feel this way? How does your body not implode from itself with this emotional war going on internally?  Do you cut through the glass, do you keep pulling up the roses, and plant your feet firmly on the ground? Go for the politics and make a movement of it? 
Or do you throw the ring down and say, "Dance the fuck around it!"? Concave your chest in before he does, walk away, run away, burn away - Senseless, hopeless, drained and full of cowardice. Who becomes the bigger person, and who becomes the equal? No one wins - this is love and war. It's the only battle that is fought not over money or over greed - but for sheer weakness of your own shortcomings. The ones that you know you can never overcome and argue through. 

Squandering Hope with Impervious Options

There are two different paths, both very contrasted from each other.

A. Find a nice gentlemen whose ideals consist of making me the center of his universe, and our goals in life would be to make sure that the other is happy, no matter what. Get married to this man, have his child, and settle down in some cute 3 bdr house somewhere in this damn country.

B. Pool all of the money I can, get my car back, pack it up - and live off of the struggle of the pursuit of happiness, single, and surrounded by music, art, and laughter - while I scale the country spending my time with people I enjoy and seeking out spontaneous adventures.

  • A. will not work

  • Want to know why?

    Because the american dream is a fallacy?

    -And my escapism disposition is failing to allow A. to become a reality. 

    Because in order for A to work.

    It requires that B does not exist.
    If you do A at this point, you will ultimately fail.

    What if B. runs into A. ?

    • Because as long as B exists you are not ready for A.

    • B will eventually, yes...

    • If A is your true destiny.

    • Though, Then there is always C...

      C is for curious I cannot tell you what C is.

      It is imperative that C remains an open ended variable

      C is for Cindal - 

      That's the me, and the now.

      The now -

      Is my favorite

An Ode to Reproach

I'll silence myself like the lambs
Shedding every epidermis of warmth I once owned.
I'll give what I haven't left to give, 
in hopes of reaping what I do not deserve.
Why must I think of everything as earned? 
A desperate sense of despair rushes from my cheeks, 
capturing everything I wish to bottle
Nothing I wish to taste.
How may we work? 
Toil away at the hardened parts of our spoiled memories.
Give up on embrace, give up on loneliness
Where may we exist, simply,
If it were not for the complexities in the ones we desire?
Partaking in the ruin; the histories we mark on pages in books, 
we fail to read, for being forced will only result in blood red anarchy.
How can we work if we don't feel inclined to love?
My assertion is all but gone; I've given myself to the doves.
To the lambs, and the seahorses,
The flounder in their shallow graves.
I've locked my distances away,
and with it destroyed my exclamation.
For I am nothing, but another pigeon - dead with a number. 

Cowboys & Their Horses.

As the people chatter around me, and the fire burns from it's singular place. I can't help but think, how does he get to call the shots? 
How does he get to tell me when this thing is over, or if it is in fact, over, in the first place? 
I put in five months of my time, my effort, my heart, my draining disparage over this man. 
What gives him the god damn right to call the coin on either side of its fault? 

And if he really just needs time, and that's what they all seem to say: "give it time, time, time."
What about the time that I spent, the nights kept awake stirring in bickered mania. The days waiting along the sunshine, watching the sun go down, and the shedding of winter skin into the spring time - what we have here is a whole new season, a whole new break in the mystery of why we were put here, together, in the first place. 
So I'll sit here in this coffee shop, I'll drown myself in a glass bottle of ginger root with natural separation. I'll wait in convenience, and allow my mind to wander against the walls, against the voices down the end where people sit together, whining about their trails, and their four poster bed frames. I've got bigger issues, my heart is broken and there is nothing more immediately concerning than that. I'll wish upon the darkening skies for a rumble of motorcycle corruption to pull around the parking-lot and shove into the farthest spot. For a man so ominous and elusive it could break my molecules apart in wonderment. 

Just reminding me of all the men that have left on motorcycles, of all the men I've watched drive off in pick-up trucks, with their tails between their legs, and their pride holstered on their shoulders like football pads. Don't take what I've given you and run with it, run with the wolves and pick it apart as pieces of distraction towards the things you only wish to ignore. 
Our hearts are folding against our rib cage, and the arteries are wound so tight it feels like a stroke every time I turn my head. 
I can't even pretend I'm okay, I can't even lie to you and say I'm fine. 
I can't even find another set of arms, or hands as callous - just to simply wrap myself up in, to feel something other than nothing. 
Nothing would make me feel worse, nothing would make me feel better. 
My time is spent not thinking of the screaming, the passivity, or the masochism. My time is spent longing for your grip, your arms like ice and stone, warming my body as a throw blanket, as a wolf. Desperate to feel your palms cradle my tiny head against your cheek, or to feel your waist pressed against my stomach as we struggle to carry each other in a hug so far from the ground only God would be jealous. 

Grasping

For the past six days I've been sitting up at five in the morning, waiting, just waiting...

Waiting for something to occur, for my phone to alert, or my lungs to collapse, for my heart to regain order, or my brain to quit. To quit fucking thinking, to quit reminiscing in the ways that minds so carelessly do. The torture begins to take over from emotional to physical. When I find myself grasping my chest, wondering if I should own an oxygen tank for times like these? Times like these that endorse some kind of wretched intensity, so passionate, so devastating that one begins to wonder if they could have done anything to prevent it... But the fact is, there was nothing that could have been done. The fire was started before anyone even knew anything was burning.

So here it is, the measure in which I take to forget all the ailments in my body; they are quickly seizing all of my common tendencies. Albums that almost, literally, reek of you. Pictures that need no captions, and my mind brings those memories to the forefront and just lets them permeate there. As if I would have forgotten already, as if I would ever forget. It's been six days, and six days is a long time to go without air. Maybe it's the blink of an eye to you, or the murmur of a vein being constricted temporarily. But it's a damn collapsible thing to me. It's the hours and the minutes, the loss of sleep, and the weight shedding, it's the sweat I wake up to, the sweat of my own chest. The beating and pulsating, the pounding, and crushing of every molecule in my forsaken body - it's a miracle I even continue to wake up, and I know what miracles are.

I think to myself, what was all that trying for? What were all those nights about? We captivated each other by nothing more than glances, and longing stares. When our eyebrows would shift, and the corners of our mouths would cripple with words so romantic, and silent it would shudder the most prolific poets, turning them over in their graves, envious that people like us exist. -- But then they didn’t really ever gave it a chance to exist in unison, so where do all those words go? Where do all those romances fall upon? They are weighing on my chest like cinder blocks and anvils. They are crushing my limbs, numbing my eyelashes closed.

How can one feel so empty, yet so consumed by every possible, feeble, fickle, erratic and complacent emotion - all at the same fucking time?

This is misery, this is harder. These are moments that by God, flowers fucking die before they’ve been picked. When inactive volcanoes erupt, and peace found countries flourish with violence and corruption. There is never anything more devastating than heartbreak, than a love that may have died before its time. I know that feeling, I know the notion of almost having lost something that you barely had a grip on in the first place. It’s like the crushing of walls; and why put trust in walls, they were only ever meant to fall. I just keep thinking, if we could have given it a little more, put in just a few more heartstrings, and looked longer into one another’s eyes. Maybe, just maybe, without fail, we could have risen to something more containable. But now it’s just memorable, and haunting. Like a car meant to rust, or milk that sat out too late. Things spoiled by ignorant natures, the kind that only humans could ruin. I never knew I could love something so dangerous, so entangled in themselves that they never had given me even a sweet chance.

Deux Ex Machina

Sometime it's distorted
Not clear to you
Sometimes the beauty of love
Just comes ringin' through.

New glass in the window
New leaf on the tree
New distance between us
You and me...

As I drove home from the coffee shop, my stomach out of order, and my head still fatigued, listening to Neil Young's "From Hank to Hendrix" on repeat... I thought of the friends I have. The ones close by...  The one's that have stopped their lives to a screeching halt, dropped the dishes in their sink, ditched their boyfriends in bed, and held me longer and tighter than normally necessary for an emotionally tiring hug - just when I needed it, just when the code red was going off - the people as of late that have been there, the ones that come tearing up the driveway to aid in my dismal discrepancies, and have been absurdly supportive in all of my mistakes, and all of my successes. 
The friends that are distant, yet close, the ones that I've barely known for just a few months, yet I feel in my heart I've known my entire life. 

It just makes me gush in appreciation, and a fondness for the capacity in my heart to be able to love these people, and that they are able to care for me back in these ways. I've been so terribly overwhelmed as of late, more overwhelmed than the general normalcy that envelopes my day to day life - 
And these people that I can count on one or two hands, they've come from the lofts to crawl into the trenches with me. 

I can't replace that; that kind of adoration can't be found in some man pouring drinks behind the bar, aiding in the institution of alcoholism that is abundantly destructive in our society. 
I don't respect that, and I don't respect the people that you give your everything to, and don't have the mind or matter, time or capacity to be able to give back what they take. 
I am surrounded by some amazingly brilliant, compassionate, and genuine beings, those people are people that are sympathetic, empathetic and understanding in the ruins that others can go through at times of distress. Most aptly, because they've experienced the same situation of disparage. 

Or even, for example, you: 
These little rhetorics we've involved ourselves in over the past two weeks. The part of my day where I have enough time, and mental wherewithal to sit down, and thumb my way through an explanation of my tedious, emotional distraughts. However they may come across to you, however the nearly 10,000 miles between us, the time differences, and how we're almost literally a day apart from each other at all times. And so, no matter what you're doing, or what I'm battling... We're both involved in this thing, in this state of connectivity where we get to communicate so in depth that we've become like friends, like friends that talk to each other every-day, and I stay up till wee hours of the morning in expectant of your arrival to my messaging and I look forward to that. I, dearly, look forward to that. 
And it's those little bits, those rapid bits of our moments, our hours, our days - that we get to have something to hold onto. Something to look forward to, and something to cherish. Whether it's about someone else, or it's just a cherish-able association in which we regard as comforting. Those things are what give us life, and gradually, internally, allow us to dizzy up the pain just enough to feel something greater.