b sharp minor

ruminations on finals, home, and hope:

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when I say that it’s ok to feel like an utter and complete mess this week because it’s Holy Week and the proper time for important things to die, and by Easter time maybe I’ll get reborn too.

but I don’t want to pretend my week parallels the death of a deity. I just need to believe that this sliver of my past is enforcing a due date on the universe for giving me a little bit of peace. Easter is on the way.

trololol just doing a meme right quick cause I don’t feel like reading Baudelaire quite yet.

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ravenclawmemaybe asked: OH MY GOD CATS METH TEQUILA TOO MUCH TO PROCESS

did you do METH while i was out too??

this would explain a lot.

at least you weren’t lying when you said you weren’t stoned.

there is help for people like you.

it looks like this.

and we spend our conversations discussing this person and that person and this insignificant text and that significant word and the spiraling intersections of lives in our own miniature universes, tiny balls of energy in which

every word is weighty and

everyone is obsessed, but

let’s be real:

we are all such goddamn tiny specks that

the only reason words matter so much is because they’re all we can actually wrap our heads around.

i love words, but sometimes they are too much for me

because i try to make them big enough for the universe and

they always fall short.

this is not what was supposed to happen to me.

“…even if you are both completely indifferent about the other in the long-term, why become a couple? Why give your time, romantic energy, or half-hearted commitment to someone you don’t see yourself ending up with–for what are likely completely valid reasons? Why stay in this limbo?”

- http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/if-theyre-not-husband-or-wifey-material-theyre-not-worth-it/

because there is nothing i would rather do with my heart than use it to love another human being, even if it’s not necessary, even if it’s not perfect, even if it’s not going to last.

it’s not about being able to tell other people i’m in a relationship.

it’s about opening up and living, instead of shutting down and hiding.

i like every kind of love.

in a room dark with the anger of loneliness, I held your sharp small waist, I looked for a handle on reality among the glass shards bleeding from your skin, and I reveled in the coercion of buzzing limbs and foolish friends. I danced with your lips in desperation,

I danced with my toes only lapped by the ocean until the sharp sting of sobriety, looming, roaring, left me buried in the sand, my mouth sore with salt water. my teeth chattered with regret and I wheeled in the night sky until the sun’s breath and freshwater blood smoothed my creases. a new-born piece of parchment. I began to write, I began to write with feverish strokes, skintight calligraphy, etched on the inside so that the marks can’t shine through for everyone to see. I sought to hold the ocean in my soon-tattered paper hands, to protect the tides, to save every tiny creature scrabbling in the salt to safe landing. I began to care for the waves boiling about me, the waves my burnt-paper hands had not touched before that day, and I underestimated your whirling power.

so when the seams ripped and the tsunami came, I thought my half-formed levees were to blame for the rushing seas. I thought that I alone sank, buried under the storm. I thought that when your twig-walled houses foamed and shattered that I should have held them close. I thought the wild lost lovers were mine. I tasted guilt for the first time on the scaly ocean floor.

but I was flying, I was not the boundary against the storm but the wind that whistled the final note composing it. I was merely a glow on the sunset of your troubles, hastening to drop below the horizon even as you broke over the remnants of a life un-cherished, gleaming on one single wave-crest as you bore your tides home. I was not the architect, nor was I your failed lifeguard. I was nothing but a whistling wind among many others, and I hope that the storm in which I penned the final phrase will bring you clean air to breathe.

i want to know

if you are standing where i stood

if you are fucking who i fucked

because if so

i want to let you know that i stood there

and maybe you’ll tell me

what is the view from the other side?

but my request is far too unreasonable.

I love you with my feet, glued to the ground where we walked together for two short years, ever returning by chance to the red clay where our love first lived. I love you with my toes, curling out from under the edge of the blanket especially when you kissed me, curling back and arching like me next to you, where I love you with my skin, the largest organ, greater than my heart because it remembers you every time I lie, lying under someone else, and my heart only remembers you in how fast it beat the first time I touched yours, terrified, white under the moon. I love you with my legs, the way you said they were sexy whether I shaved the stubble or not, the way they stuck to the seat in your mom’s minivan in the drenched air of August when we sat in the park that one time together, that time that should have been the first of many, that time when you were already planning our anniversary, that time that was not meant to be. I love you with my waist and the feeling of your hands on it the first time we danced together, the way I pretended to be okay, the way I cried to you that night but couldn’t form the words to explain why, the night that made me realize I was in love with you even though I wouldn’t tell you so for four more long months. I love you with my hands, forever in your soft brown hair, forever reaching across the quarantine line when you had the flu and I was sure my symptomless sickness was the same but I couldn’t tell the nurse that because then she might have known and it was difficult enough to love you on that ground, it was so difficult that the bittersweet secrecy had perks that I didn’t want to throw away even though I missed you already. I love you with my voice, that wrote you songs, that still writes you songs, that sang “500 Miles” while crying alone in your college dorm room a week before we spoke our love aloud for the last time. I love you with my eyes, that remember the mirror of yours, that remember everything, crying for far too long, crying after I had stopped loving you but when I had still not stopped loving altogether, that will keep crying for love even though you have ceased to be you and I have ceased to be I. I love you with my mouth, hurting with the energy of holding back tears, hurting with the stumbles of my tongue when my loving voice was not enough to hold onto you, my mouth hurting with desperate efforts to replace you that left me bruised and hollow. I love you with my fury that your car was in the shop the one time we were close enough to touch again, if only over coffee, if only like people grown, because maybe it would have helped me stop looking for a replacement for you. I love you because I know no other way to love, and because new-me knows no way to live but to look for new-you, the rebirth of love in new bodies and places that will finally fill the pit that dropped in my stomach two and a half long years ago. I love you with everything I have that nobody is prepared to hold, and I love you in warmth and security that all the hurt I own is finite because you no longer exist, past love of mine.

i think i want to cut my hair short (i’ll probably start with something just below shoulder length) and get back to my natural color soon. i really like having longer hair, but i’m getting tired of it…then again, it’s taken me ages to get it this long. hm we’ll see.

also, i’m afraid, now that i’ve gone through a ton of my old fb pictures as procrastination, that rather than using the haircut as a way to move forward, i’ll be using it as a way to try to recapture the past…and that’s no good.

my classes for this semester are going to be really hard, but my first two nights of homework have consisted of reading the first act of a hilarious Moliere play in French and listening to recordings that Bartok made of Hungarian folk songs and the subsequent compositions based on them. in my first English class, we began to examine the endless style of early modern texts, in both narrative and composition. I like school.

sidenote: if I don’t die of overwork this semester, I will consider it a semester well spent.

• my own kitchen
• an apartment, perhaps
• a car
• a place to live and leave my stuff year-round, even when i travel, even when i’m not in school
• a place to live and leave my stuff for a few years, to get a little settled, to learn the creaks in the floor and unpack all my boxes and hide the packing debris away for more than a few months before i move away again
• a car…and the ability to travel places with it sometimes
• temporary stability that lasts longer than a year
• a place that convinces me to stop calling “home” wherever i rest my head that night and reminds me that i don’t have to always be free-floating to be free
• a home that is just (im)perfect enough that i’m not afraid to leave and move on when the time comes, and another little place where i can rest, really rest, when i get there
• a particular kind of perhaps even adult stability, that’s what i want, because even my adventuring spirit is weary of living spread so thin i can barely rest, no matter where i land…