everything hurts today

Mexico

Yesterday I called an old friend. They are making their way to Mexico with someone that they told me they want to marry. I met them when I was no riper than sixteen. Now they are this person on the other line. My heart swelled when they said something.

"It feels so strange to actually be loved. To have someone really care for me in the ways I have always longed to be cared for. It happened so perfectly. After a full moon where I burned all of my belongings on the beach and walked away from some people in my life who didn't need to be there. I had to do that. I met them. And suddenly it was-

'I'll go anywhere with you!!'

And that was it. Now we are going to Mexico together."

I wonder if my friend knows how happy I am for them. I think everyone should be in love, headed to Mexico. Happy. 

On loving (so far)

if only somebody would've told the young girl i once was 

some people will hold you so delicately

as if you were a fragile leaf, splitting, diverging, grasping at you own stem

they'll hold you with both hands

aware of every finger 

aware of all that you are

ready to nurture and inspire

honored and delighted to have that chance

you will be precious to them

like seeing the streets flood after drought 

and what then would that young girl think if you told her 

you couldn't digest that truth

you couldn't find the love in yourself so you could not believe

when every person around you willingly gives that to you

just eat it like a death row meal

just take it like you stole it 

i wish the younger me could tell me what she thinks of all this

of all this love she's going to get at all times, at every hour

in any state she comes, she's invited

and her presence is basked in, if not enthralled to be around

the people i have been walking up to these day

(with my head held higher than i can say for the past)

i'm finding love easier to understand

it is so unforgivingly necessary to believe when people love you 

and to thank them

and to love them tenfold

i keep walking past these strangers and in my head, occasionally out loud

i just thank them

for whatever they're walking towards

or away from

my love is like a ripe pear

it tastes like sourdough bread

smells like patchouli 

sounds like the birds in the morning 

and feels like silk on skin

i know this because i am this and i want everyone to be so accustomed to all these sensations

Every ghost is my guru

Everything breaks my heart. I am fragile in the strongest sense of the word. Count me paradoxical. Call me tender. Call me what I am. Sometimes I get so down. I find myself so tampered with and poured out of that I can't deny in wondering, 'Just what is left of me?' There are moments where I have certainly and repeatedly fallen out of sorts. Yes, I have cut locks of my own hair off in anger. I've been so beaten into the Earth's core by someone I so truly did die for, there seems to be an absence of me left to carry out the duties existing calls for. Assuming, of course, I want to survive. In moments such as those, I am wholeheartedly and irrevocably human. Looking into my own drooped, swollen eyes. Seeing how tarnished I can find myself. Hating myself. Loathing whatever I've become. Finding it difficult to even identify with what looks back at me in the undusted mirror of my teenage bedroom. Feeling such a distinct sense of, "God, I did not see this for you". I wish someone, older than me, perhaps, warned me of those moments. I was never set up for heartbreaks like those. It can feel unmotivating to know that those times are almost always guaranteed when you sign up to be a human. Fresh off the astral plane. All-knowing. So unaware. 

And at every occasion in which an ache in myself stretches out for me like a lifeless hand out of a grave, I still have a deep knowing that saves me from despair. I know that where there is void, the other side of the street offers sun. Where there is unforeseeable fury, a short stroll upwards provides jasmine perfume and French bakery breads. Nothing is sourced in one shade. All colors encompass life. Color pukes on me. I sit and smile. It is because I have absolutely despised the woman I am, it is because I have thought myself lowly and unworthy in various seasons of my life, that I now cherish all that is. There may truly be nowhere to go but up in such times. When I feel that creeping in, I don't scramble for escape anymore. What is the use in acting against nature? Welcome every ghost you've got. They are our greatest teachers. And I am a willing student. I know nothing at all. I say that with my entire chest. I feel sunlight today and it matters. The rays of love touch my skin differently after my skin lacked it for so very long. To be held after such deprovision, that will teach you all you need to know. 

Wednesday

What is destiny to you? Is it malleable? Do you find it to be a ball of clay? Tangible and susceptible to change?

I'm finding that the way one views destiny tells me much of where they go in life. Some may not believe in it in the slightest. Others may believe it is concrete. You've got a fate to be doomed to, with no personal interception or influence. 

My own thinking melds with all of these views. Making up my mind on a subject and leaving it be...that is a foreign concept. Said thinking is beyond me. I'm a new person every following Wednesday.

Prior to certain self-revelations, I used to really mind that about myself. How do I delegate that? Why is it so deeply in the nature of certain individuals around me to be able to hold an opinion? 

Now, I perceive it as charming. Innocent. Child-like. Playful. All of that. Where I used to find myself coy and inexperienced... well, I note those qualities stagnant. I still exist as such. Perhaps the essence in which I view these self-aspects has shifted. 

What do I suppose my own destiny is? 

My best guess is that the answer will change depending on what color underwear I put on that day. Not to mention whether or not my toes are painted. 

Le petite mort

    I haven't smoked a cigarette in nearly a week. Lit one up three seconds ago, absent of guilt. Accidentally, I walked five miles today. We have my absolute and indiscrete lack of direction to thank for that. Cigarettes are philosophical. They make me feel stoic. I find myself entitled to indulge in a tobacco-lined stick of death every so often. What does the word orgasm translate to? In French? 'Le petit mort', meaning: 'the little death'. That is what a cigarette translates to me, in my own little dictionary. I've been reading a multitude of Tom Robbins. He sure likes to talk about sex. How especially nice to read about it when I'm not having any. Personally, I like to let a cigarette hang from my lips, like I am flirting with my front porch. The weather is nice out today. Can't always make such a statement living here. My memory is too far gone to recall which television show character said this but I do recall someone saying that you "ought to hold a cigarette like it is the thing that has been missing from your hand". What a clever way to keep me lighting up. Tonight, I will make pasta because I love myself. I smoke because I love myself, though you'd infer the opposite. I do everything because I love and that is what it means to be human. My cigarette is finished and so concludes this entry. 

Life in a northern town

    I am feeling something new and fresh to me. Somewhat foreign. Not overwhelming and certainly not uninspired. Peace? How do you become acquainted with something of that nature when you've sat under the impression that you've been good friends with that feeling for quite some time? Just shy of one week that I've been here, and something seems to be maturing in me. Ripening. 

    I feel like I am living in the past. Far before my time. Before my Nana's time, matter of fact. Suddenly I am making loose-leaf kettle tea three times a day. Morning, afternoon, and before the dream world welcomes me back home. Walking all around town, eyes to the sky (I have stumbled over the poorly tended infrastructure only a handful of times). 

    Now, there is a creepy basement where I live. Looking down the dark, unkept, seldom visited floors; I see the grounds upon which a younger me would've winced and refused to walk along. Reading more and actually sticking with a singular book until the end. Only being warm when showering. Otherwise in a constant state of goosebumps. Might that be my eternal state the following years spent here? I continuously ask myself this. 

    Convenience feels farther away. Nothing is so instantly gratifying. A nasty, relentless part of my car's engine failed on me Wednesday. Hence the walking about. My presumed result dims farther from being rapid. My patience felt that it was fraying recently. What a quick fix to that, I note to myself. I am thinking about the future. I am thinking about paying rent. I am thinking about my little sister. All of this really is strange. 

    Regardless of whether or not this is the cosmic and objective truth of my reality, I am starting to think that I was in need of this shift. Some inner speaker was beckoning me to diffuse farther and farther away from noise. It is gone now, and I am searching for noise once more because noise is comforting when that is all you know. I want constant music. I want static fuzz. I want voices conversing in the kitchen, down the hall. I want life. 

    My previous understanding was that noise was synonymous with life. That idea morphs now. It is sailing off into the sea of past notions where all of my solidified beliefs bury themselves in marked graves. Things I believed to be true, therefore inarguable and permanent. Life can be quiet. 

    The birds don't always chirp. They take naps. The wind won't constantly blow and brush the tree leaves up against one another, producing that sound that melts me so. Lovers sleep the afternoon away, not always snoring. Lovers sleep like babies. Supple, silent, hardly alive. I am wrong about many things because I am very, very young. You could say that I have a reputation to stand solid in what I think I know but truthfully, I will tell you in private, when all the guests have left, I haven't a clue. Neither do you.

    Nature is dualistic. Where noise is found on one cloud, the garden below is vacant. Where the chimney fire crackles and spits in my Nana's home, my own fireplace is cold and has not been touched since the previous winter. Life has been too noisy for me. So, I will retire to meditate until the static sounds find their way back to me.

They always do.