Imaginary.

I'm saving myself for someone who doesn't exist. I'm torturing myself for something that will never be in my grasp. I'm getting my myself dressed up for eyes that will never appreciate it.

Actually I don't think I convinced myself I don't like him, I'm just not ready.... I'm still very much in love with someone I'll never be with ever again. I still dream about laying in bed like we used to, as he would lean in softly for a kiss, or the first night we were back in each others arms after years of waiting. I always say I will always love you to a guy when he breaks my heart but this is the first time it stuck for over a year, and I can only wonder how long is this going to be?

Backwards

I think I'm talking myself out of liking someone.... What the fuck is wrong with me?

White winter hymnal.

I don't want summer to come, it reminds me too much of the adventures we used to have. I want to stay in a season where you don't exist.

So, anyways.

I've felt very strange lately. Detached. I’m floating hundreds of miles above the ground with only a string tied to my ankle, tied to a rock, tied to the ground, to anchor me down. I’m just up there bobbing around - possibly sighing or humming to pass the time. I am tangled up in the magic of things.

I feel boring and like I bore everyone around me. I want to sit criss-cross-applesauce next to someone strumming softly, I want to pound away on my typewriter while they sing me Fleet Foxes covers, both of us smiling at each other’s smile. I want to be silly and wild and take long drives and dance in public places and read dirty poetry while they hold the wheel. I want to laugh. Above all things, I love to laugh.

I want, I want, I want.

I always know I am most comfortable with someone when we can be silent together, going about our own lives, but still so completely intertwined.

I’m thinking about us lost in the mountains. Damp wood, magnolia, ribs, palms, braiding hair, broken guitar strings, something, something, come here, please, come closer.

L'amour de ma vie

I am not many things. I am not a good conversationalist, I am not particularly loud, I am not good at drawing, I am not capable of long term memory (or so it seems), and I am not going down in history as the world’s best driver.

But I can say, with complete and total confidence, that I am at least one thing. Always have been, always will be.

Passionate.

I throw myself entirely into everything I do and everyone I encounter. I have no patience for this meek attitude towards life that so many people have adopted. They sit back and let extraordinary things pass them by each and every day. They pull the brakes on many relationships for manufactured reasons. Aren’t they aware that every single person in this world is simply stunning and ready to teach you something about yourself? They let their talents go to waste by being too lazy and too prideful. They hide behind so many things.

I am just as guilty, but…

God, I fall in love with everything and everyone. I want to be everyone’s best friend. I want to hold everyone’s hand. I want to drive to every province with the windows down. I want to read every book in the world. I want to dip my toes in every body of water. I want to feel a thousand emotions at once. I want life in the palm of my hand.

I am the most guilty, selfish person in the world for wanting all of these things.

Substitute people

I feel, undoubtedly, like a substitute person. I am interesting and close enough to the “real thing” to so many people, but not quite enough. I am not quite good enough or funny enough or smart enough or good-looking enough. I’m on the edge and they find themselves enjoying me for the time being, but it’s never for “all time”. It’s just for a while and it’s just when they need me.

I have yet to see wonder in another person’s eyes as I tell him about my theories, my beliefs, my hopes, and my dreams. It means I’ll never get that all-knowing, all-understanding hand-squeeze, or look from the person I love that says, “I know exactly what you are thinking or feeling and I want you to know that it means just as much to me as it does to you.”

Most nights, I am fine with the time I have in solitude. I would say that 90% of the time, I am perfectly content being alone. But that 10% of sudden longing is so excruciating and so heartbreaking, that the 90% doesn’t even seem to matter any more.

I am tipsy and I am not satisfied. Tonight is a 10% kind of night.