I, despite my furious efforts to calm myself, find that merely the utterance of your name makes my chest tighten with rapid breathing. And when we walk together, or sit beside each other, I feel your presence so entirely as if it were my own being in clarity. Let me explain further, as if being close to you allows me to gain insight into a higher part of myself, a desirous part that is often so passionate and whimsy that I tie it to the back of my mind. But with you, the bonds are not so tight, they loosen and allow that spirit to creep forth from the shadows into brilliant, blinding light. Oh, my mind, my thoughts, my heart despairs…for something it is tempted to take… but will never own. Though, I desire to possess you. I desire to have you be completely within my thrall, so much so that it would be only my embrace that can soothe you, only my gaze that will entrance you, and only my touch that will satisfy you. Otherwise, you should go hungry in my absence: for the intelligent thoughts we share, and the brushing of fingertips against warm skin, and the long meaningful looks we lavish upon one another. I did not know I could feel this…these thoughts for another being. I imagined I knew love, but this is not love. No, this is…a dark part inside me opening to embrace you. This is…me with with the vulnerable, pink skin beneath an open wound. This is the soft moaning of my voice at your caress. This is my eyes closed and walking forward. This is feeling like a child, tear rolling down my cheek, face hid in your chest with your strong hand in my hair; safe. This is comfort and uncomfort; worry and recklessness. This is a culmination of experiences that horrify my sensibilities. They shock my circuit, smoke up the health, drown the kidneys…they are life and death and you are everything…everything…in between.
I wanted to pinch her. Couldn’t she see that there was life at her fingers, and she had only to grasp it? The overwhelming wave of black materialism had drowned her. Swim to the light, swim to the light. Spirit dampened, she clawed her way to the shore, face pressed on the gritty sand, but she had since given up the emotions to feel. The aura that surrounded her was a dark mist of gray in which she masochistically enjoyed, but blinded others. They say that the 20s is a time where young ones, such as ourselves, are at the cusp of something intangibly great…adventure, thrill, desire, and passion, all ours for the taking. We reap what we grow. We cultivate what we dwell on. Our passions, put to use, bloom. Her fingers brush against the uncomfortable weight of gray matter that is slowly consuming her, turning her eyes gray, her mood…gray. She brushes it away, sees clearly that there across the beach is a cottage. It is warm, bright, and comfortable, with many wild flowers blooming among the dry dune-grass. She finds herself being pulled to the door: cracked, and weathered as if beaten by the coastal storms, though it remains charming, wise even. Her hand finds the knob of clear glass, and she turns it. Another feeling overwhelms her; this time it is purpose and passion. She is gifted with dreams and they flash like future-memories through her mind: her wide, red-lipped smile; the steam blowing off a mug of coffee; his bright blue eyes. She doesn’t feel the gaping tight blockage in her chest, the worry of tangible things that do not matter. She crosses to the lit hearth, and from the blackened pot she boils a cup of tea…rests on the comfortable couch, and watches the black tail of a feline swish around a corner, and soft paws leap atop her lap. Mulling it over, she knows exactly what she should do next. Do you? Pinch.
I’m sorry I have not written a post in a long while. It seems to be a culmination of life overwhelming my daily life and the near termination of the semester. One of the last semesters in my college career, in fact. So now I am only a few days away from the dreaded finals week.
Here’s how I will get through it:
- Water. Water. some cherry coke, and more water.
- I know this will sound crazy, but…a eucalyptus steam shower (basically, adding eucalyptus oil or leaves to my shower to clear my head and pores)
- Some tea
- Creative writing therapy
- 6 letters sent overseas to my fiance
- Sleep, and plenty of it!
If you’re having a stressful day, week, or month, perhaps try some of those!
…And fight the words that I’m dying to say
Fight a battle,
for when words are uttered, candles will be burnt.
Fight against the truth because of fear,
Scared of losing this grace,
this safety net that was needed for so long.
And when knives dropped,
In a prophetic way,
remember the visions that came before,
the truths ignored,
the paths blatantly walled up,
desperately torching escape-routes,
in a false sense of sanity.
Once those thoughts were uttered,
a dripping head on a spike,
blood strewn about,
heart shattered to pieces.
War instigated, prolonged and fought,
now death is left to claim.
A sharp inhale in,
no words will never tumble out…
I am none of these women,
My photo won’t be printed on a glossy magazine page,
I will not roll out of bed with perfect curls,
My breath does not always smell like cherries,
Nor are my lips light pink.
I do not have the patience of a saint,
I won’t seduce you to stay longer,
I will not throw a four-year-old temper tantrum…
If my new diet drink is making me moody.
My nails will not be painted chipless,
My cooking skills are not be compared with a sous-chef,
And I definitely will not wait on you hand and foot.
My waist will not resemble and apple core,
Neither my breasts as cantaloupes,
My temper will not be easily swayed with a gift,
I will not swoon over diamonds.
Spiders somewhat scare me.
But, I am the woman who cried often (daily)
You may buy me an emerald or an eggroll and my world is yours
Dandelions please me. Malls do not faze me. Animal abuse angers me.
I will hunch over a good book,
And stand proud of my accomplishments.
I will kiss you softly, and you will know you are loved.
I will be stressed and distracted, but I’m willing to be soothed.
Okay, I lied, spiders creep me out.
I will wriggle when you tickle me,
And cry when the pain is too much,
I will cry. And cry. And just when you hoped I’d smile, I’ll cry a little more.
But I will dance and not care.
I will not care a lot sometimes.
This is me, woman. Not women.
Four Asian women sit around a high-table, speaking a language I do not recognize. They have bought the mainstream American brew of tea, and clink little white porcelain teacups together before laughing and sipping. It’s fascinating really. Somehow it feels like they’ve created for themselves a niche where they can talk fast and talk about interesting subjects–I know because their eyebrows raise and the tone of their voice changes rapidly–among a group of coffee-drinkers. More like coffee-house-dwellers.
This brew looks so homey and warm. It reminds me of cold December mornings and tip-toeing across stiff and creaking floorboards, fried eggs spattering oil in a skillet, and homemade blueberry muffins, sitting down in a grey cardigan with my hair messy from the pillow. And reaching across the table to pour some honey in the bottom of my cup, before tilting the steaming glass pot.