crick crack, snap it right back

When I tell you
that I miss you, what does it make you feel like? Does it make you feel
like I miss you, the way you move in my space repeatedly, in circles,
spinning wildly and re-appearing again? Does it make you feel like I
cannot let you go? Does it make you sink your neck inside yourself
where you want to pretend those words were not just uttered at you,
slipping gently into your ear? Does it make you want to scream and
strangle me for putting you through this thing we all knew was
inevitable. You said you did not want it, and certainly I believed you.
And somehow, as the past few days have winded into tight and tidy
knots, I do believe you. My dreams tell me so. Why is it that we as
human beings are so afraid of change that will reap such good effects?
We know it to be so, yet we still mess with it, question it, knock it
off the mantle, disfigure, disentangle, and destroy it. Is it a fear of
the unfamiliar, a fear of the familiar, or just a  really wimpy
way of going about things? I have this story in my mind I have been
wanting to write, but with current influences here, it makes it hard to
really find the time and space to truly explore that whipping of words.
For now, and about the past hour I have been left to my own devices,
and I can certainly spin my words irreverently around each other.

Why is it that you still show in my dreams when the steady dream is
sitting in my vicinity, arms open wide, offering me everything, and
anything that I want?

We as humans are attracted to our own destruction. We often don’t
follow the road best traveled, but instead choose the sputtering wild
one that leaves you in the middle of nowhere, wanting to get back, but
not having had the foresight to drop clues as to just how to do it.

The funny thing is the feeling in my belly is that feeling of impending
doom, caustic from the dreams, but impending changes that will leave
the face of me completely different than what stood before.

I am not used to being happy, satisfied in relationships, it’s true.
That give and take stuff always seems to unbalanced. The other person
is always doing all the taking, and I am often the one giving giving
giving until there is no more. It’s a balance that was predetermined to
strike and flutter like a broken wing flapping. I do not think I
deserve to be alone and unhappy, but I think I often put myself in
situations that I know are not those that would make me happy. I put up
with bullshit and I pretend that I am too strong to take
it. But then I eagerly stick out my wrist for the slashing. Why is it
that the human condition is so attached to its misery? Why do we stick
our heads into traffic just to stir shit up?

My current situation I have placed myself into is strange and
believable, and unbelievable and mysterious all in one fell swoop. I
have this man who appears on my doorstep the night before last, willing
and somehow able to lay before me a pretty little map of things to
come. I suppose my first instinct is to kick the board and break all
the pieces. I am bad with perfection because I don’t believe it truly
exists in situations created by adults. Children and plants and stuff
that is not man-made are perfect just in the fact that they exist. But
adults are capable of monstrous shit. Though to say Paul is monstrous
would be a complete mis-statement of fact. He is charming and beautiful
and brilliant and has a well-fertilized mind from which good things
have been shown to grow, and are growing as we speak. He’s a super
nerd, or rather super dork, which is endearing as that stuff goes. He
likes to run around in nature and has the same feeling about things
born of the earth that I do. Though he is a bit more PC than me. I am
one of those people who says what she means no matter what, so the
delicate nature of being PC is nothing that could ever be associated
with me. I suppose its about rewiring your thinking patterns to take
out each and every noun or pronoun or description that could be
interpreted as offensive from your mind. That seems like a bit much to
me, and so deliberate it hurts.

Nit nit nit pick. I am kind of wishing for a little sabbatical to a
quiet place to think and resolve and to write. I will be going to
Georgia in a few weeks to go on vacation, I hope. Because this little
away from work time hasn’t been as much fun with numb toes and a little
hopping gimp in the leg.

And as I was reviewing this, who comes in the door with Paul, sparkle
in the eye, saying, I took the liberty of picking something up for you,
scurries out the door, and comes back with an acoustic guitar, in case,
with various accessories. See, it’s been a secret fantasy of mine to be
a rock star, and now I have all the tools to do that.

Consequently, the plan, as it stood yesterday was: take the time to
figure it out, figure out if this is what you want, figure out each
other over the next six months or so, and then figure out if the ending
plain is the same one for each of us. Uh-huh.

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