Sunday, September 27, 2009

sketchbook: obscura on crinkled pages

Shoulda Coulda Woulda
Smile coils on my face, this day almost done; I am ready to keep looking forward while listening to that internal dialogue smirking at the things I still need to learn. Life, that rag bastard of collected history, constantly surprising me, has sent me wandering once again in my cocky wonder-lust for understanding. Sigh. I thought by now I’d have a grasp on what this life is SUPPOSED to be. I am starting to realize its best to watch out for those very words – SUPPOSED TO BE.

Stalker Nightmare (written 4/3/07)
It’s too late. I don’t want to know. She stares me down, ushering me with her hand in a frantic wave to come closer. I don’t, so she steps closer pressing her hand against my shoulder pushing her face close to my ear. I step backwards a little as she whispers her secret against her fingers pursed hugging my arm now and it’s too late. I am an innocent bystander to her need to share her secret love for me. Of course, she expects me to respond, have advice, comfort…I have none, except to keep me out of this loop. I am okay with simply not playing telephone. My heart feels bored by these inane human conditions of secrets and lies. It is not unique and is overplayed. In a world learning to forgive itself of its irreverent behavior in the name of impulsive exoneration, I find myself yearning for that rare seed, a heart that can beat & still know integrity. It’s not that I haven’t been there; ready to forego thought for the high. I’ve done it more then I should remember. Somewhere though, I learned to draw a line with self-love and action, replacing addiction for self-love. I sowed myself a new skin that heals old scars, and I forgave myself. Once forgiveness happens, everything changes! Suddenly, I hunger for a new kind of love I have never experienced before and that old impulse now yearn for the sweetest rarest bud of all, authenticity with love. It’s too late. She hates me now, with fevered conviction. I didn’t acquiesce to the same sentiment and just as powerful her love was for me, so is her hate. And now she plans to woo me regardless. To show me I am hers. It’s getting worse. I like her even less. Love impossibility. Though I admit once, I would have skipped out on reality and accepted this and pretended it was love.

I peel back layers of writing. I write and then I forget what I write until I come back to it with fresh eyes. Horrible things aren’t so bad anymore and I realized it was just the sentiment behind it that sucked! Someday, I think to certain pieces, I will share you. Never, I curse at certain pieces, will you see the light of day. And then, because I do heart the underdog, I let them live anyway. I hope that after I have forgotten them and come back to review them, they might get their chance yet.

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