Admittedly had some bourbon tonight. The last couple of weeks have been pretty much torture. I have been engaged in the oddest affair of the heart. on and off for the last two and half years. In the last six months it has become quite a bit more constant. almost to the point that i would have almost said, i have a boyfriend. bizarre, i know. yet two weeks ago he fucking dumped me within 16 hours of telling me that he was in love with me. fuck me in the neck. seriously. heartbreak of the most serious kind. the kind when you have been involved with a friend who has seen you in the worst of your times, in your worst of shapes and still loves you. the person that you think, nah. no way. friend. maybe we go sideways sometimes, but no. not going there. then you do.
such a fucked up situation. the deep love. yet you want to be in serious denial about it.
as if it wasn't real, rejection then would be so much easier to handle.
then you find yourself waiting to hear from him.
counting down until you know for sure when you get to see him again.
strategic posts on facebook, letting him know where you are, in case he wants to know.
the elation of him showing up at those places after you have posted.
then the awfulness.
the "i'm done."
the "i should have ended this earlier."
the tears. the pain. the torture.
then two weeks later.
both at the same place.
walking to the car.
the kiss. the tears.
i missed you.
i love you.
the insane yet absolutely beautiful night together.
all from him...
now i wait for what happens next.
do i hope?
do i listen to my fear?
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
There are days when reincarnation seems so completely possible. I am standing outside of myself, watching to whom I seem the most drawn. Those people who are creative, intelligent, witty. And tortured. The people who have a dark tragedy that dominates their psyche and soul. I recently was told by a friend that she was leaving on a "trip" because she needed to pay bills, she had no "real job", and in times like this resorted to being a "high end" prostitute. I firmly believe that the world's oldest profession should be legal and regulated on some levels, yet I still walked away stunned. I had no judgement, and in theory, I really should not have had any surprise at this news, and yet I found myself feeling a bit surreal upon hearing her tell me this. This morsel of information, given to me as a test, as a confession, as a possible cry for help as she looked into this sea she was getting ready to surf. I had stepped into a Henry Miller book. To process or perhaps even understand, I took another mental step back and started thinking about how I had met her, and how the social circles are always so small. I found myself realizing that there is this darkness that runs in many of the people I know. Some are great at hiding it. Others wear it like a badge. Many don't know how to deal with this dark lake they own and dive into a life of substance abuse and allow that even darker and murky water to warm them and carry them to places only they know exist. I also see the people who do not possess that excruciating malignancy. The ones who are just living. Existing in the moment. They too are drawn into the darkness and abuse, simply by the nature of being at the right place at the right time and the charisma that can come from these individuals. I, on the other hand, interpret my roll in this mini society as the watcher. I can be self destructive and can have a level of darkness, but I never live there long. I can always see the other side of the lake with it's beautiful and majestic trees I want to climb and the moonlight reflecting on it's surface. So I watch. I remember. The geniuses, the talented, the beautiful, the tortured, the drunk. When I do participate, nay swim in their morose lagoon, in retrospect, I realize that I could be picked up in space and time and be carousing in Paris in 1921 with the same people, the same souls. Playing out their sadness and love; I sit on their foreboding beach, documenting it in a frail and elusive moment of inspiration.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
I am laying here for the third night in a row attempting to write an entry. I was writing to Melanie recently about how I feel like my life even at its slowest moves at a frantic pace. I want to write about my recent months of aggressive bicycle riding and training. I want to expound on the thoughts i have about love. I want to talk about this time of year and the dramas that occurred three years ago that have forever changed my life dramatically. How this time of year now makes me anxious and melancholy. Only then to roll into the holidays which I used to love and now would rather endure the stomach flu than have to live through again. I want to write about the people who inhabit my life and how i seem to have this strange penchant for the most tortured yet beautiful souls. How I think sometimes that is my fate despite all the fight I have in me. I am hot. I am tired. I am disillusioned with so many things, yet I seem to have finally learned to just give it another day. Today I rode 10 miles in the disgusting heat. I wanted to do 20 and try to beat this cynicism into submission, but 10 was all I could do without hurting myself. Then tonight I went roller skating. That for a brief moment brought a smile to my face. Now I think I am just tired. Work will be a welcome respite to the inner workings of my ocd brain that keeps coming back to the same stupid place. I would like to just close the door for a few minutes, but it just doesn't want to let me. The best I can hope for is a dream or two that make me somehow feel good. I will hope as I close my eyes in a little bit.