The Labyrinth

We are told our futures lie inside our dreams–a virtual canvas of opportunity, we turn to the night to discover the light at the end of the tunnel.

We most often dream of love I think,  and spend our days searching the  streets contriving the moment our lives will fall neatly inside the very fairytale we only find in the darkness.

The irony of course, is that our dreams are creations born inside our memory, for we cannot dream of faces we haven’t seen–our bodies are only able to conjure up fragments of moments long forgotten, seen…but unknown. And so we lie still, unable to move forward, paralyzed by the memories that cannot out run the night. Silence is the Enemy of My Heart

But if all that haunts in twilight is forgotten by day, then what is forgotten by day, remains in the night. For the very memories that will linger inside our rotting bones, are created in the living we do today.

Who said we cannot bend time? Skew the past into believing it cannot haunt us anymore. Certainly I can recreate my second chance, for my awakened body has scars. Mappable in the sunlight, but only if I refuse to muralize them in the darkness.  All along I was trying to connect the dots, and write a story that never had an ending. It is a labyrinth of course, and our very minds cannot escape the day or the night. For we are always living, and always dying. And only our dreams themselves can discern the two.

I believe dreams may be for the young, but dreaming belongs to the aged. For the ones that kept on living, believing in the power of their own creations. Those who turned a bleeding cheek from very rules that can never be followed. Moments made in color, judged in black and white. You will find me searching in the middle, muddling my dreams even while I stay awake.

I fear that which I do not know, yet all along I’ve known it all. I should have seen this coming, even if only while I lied asleep.

Instincts

You say I spend too much time dancing with ghosts…too far away to reach and too close to leave.If that is true, it is more a waltz then a tango…gentle, but shameless all same.

As I slide across a life I am beginning to love, I can’t help but feel his breath upon my skin. Mostly, I feel the breath glide past the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, and I can’t help but wonder if there is a difference between my instincts and this ghost. Instincts It seems to have a spirit all its own, and I think sometimes, I am too quick to name him.

He latches not onto me, but instead onto the circumstances that come with moving on. Some people call this doubt I suppose. I try not to be quick to name it and am thankful for the moments that are entirely mine when I trust what my heart is telling me.

The truth is that I carry him as a comfort because it is the only thing that is entirely mine. A reality born from the gasps I never let out and sealed in my own perception. There is comfort in knowing what happens next and so I am at risk of fulfilling my greatest expectations. Again. Always again.

The irony is that I have deep gratitude for this provocative dancing partner…for the love he gave me and for the love he stole back. For pushing me to my edge and for teaching me that even loyalty needs limits. But mostly, I am grateful for the dancing.

I used to think I was the kind of broken that was never going to heal. And there are sometimes that I still do. But I care less about the consequences because it seems to me that broken things let more light in. Sunlight can permeate my entire body, and it offers me a warmth that puts me to rest at night.

All along you’ve known my whole story. You are just now beginning to understand it. It’s all written here, and the words make far more sense than my voice. I could say to you, “if you’d only known me then,” and spend a million minutes painting the portraits of my past. But I smiled less and I am smarter now and if you listen closely, I’m inviting you to dance with me. In the sunlight, where everyone can see.

I’m moving closer everyday and I know that the ghost can’t hurt me anymore. The problem, my friend, is that you still can.

Dripping Past

I know loving me is hard. I can feel it sometimes when you look at me. As though you are trying so hard to understand what lies inside. I feel clear as glass when you are in the room. And the more you accept, the more you get.  So please be careful what you wish for.

I know I send you a thousand words, most contradicting the others. I’m always moving and I feel hard to hold on to.  Yet I seem stuck in the same place. Its quicksand really…and I heard I better move slowly.

Lately I’ve been slippery as silk and the past drips from me like water. I can feel myself wet and exposed, and this is all taking entirely too long.  I’m saying prayers that your threshold for love can bare all I’ve lost.     Because with each thing you give me, I whisper goodbye to another thing stolen from me.  I forgot to tell you that you are loving me back to life.  And I know it is taking entirely too long.Don't let go.

What I never showed and you’ve always seen, is just revealing itself to me.  I’m circling it, dancing around it, peeking inside and mostly I’m scared of what I see. With each confusing glance, I look to you to explain it all because you are the only person who has never looked away.

I know the answers are out there, waiting for me.  And I feel you urging me forward.  But the only time I feel strong enough to move, is when I’m lost in you.  Keep calling my name and please don’t let go of my hand.

Chasing the Sun

I think I’ve had a thousand beginnings.  And each one is slightly less scary than the one before.  I used to plan ahead, remain perched upon what was supposed to happen, instead of feeling what was actually happening. I’m less obsessed with the future now, as I understand it will always remain slightly out of my reach.Chasing the Sun

I imagine the earth feels this way about the sun…Always rotating trying to feel its warmth upon its face.  I must have thought the future held some contract of dreams fulfilled, lies untold, promises kept.  But the future keeps rotating…changing, always just slightly out of my reach.

But the sun remains a steady companion.  It greets me each morning, wakes me with a fresh promise.  Things are going to keep changing…but what was once old, will be come new again.  The beginnings will keep coming, and the endings are yet another promise. There is certainty here–a comfort in the process.  If losing love is like a window through my heart, regaining it must feel like a moment stuck in time.

I’m starting to sense that it is the present that offers the real possibility.  No longer searching for dreams fulfilled because I am too busy fulfilling them. I don’t question the chance, the inevitable opportunity that comes with new beginnings.  And I do not fear the end. This place used to feel like hope abandoned. Now, it has become a consummation of possibility.

The wildness, that must occupy this space, is palpable.  I feel it with each passing decision even as I abandon all logic.  I can both articulate it and forget it all at once.  And if I remain here long enough, sunlight on my face, my past will be wiped clean by somebody else’s  dream.  And with each lover’s touch, not even the fingerprints will remain.

Happy Anniversary

The truth is, we were never good at the big things.  Anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas and New Years stood as comical reminders that we were brilliant at letting each other down.  Today, I’m mourning the art of being let down.

I believe it was two years ago today,  after a particularly staggering argument (the topic of which I no longer remember) that he threw a watch at me and said, “Happy fucking anniversary.” There is something beautiful about getting a watch as a present. As though that person is giving you the gift of time, or perhaps eternity. Somehow this is lost when it is hurled at your forehead.

Yet somehow, I find myself remembering the small things. How we could drift down rivers and never say a word.  How his laugh, when it was real, resembled a 12-year-old girl’s. The way his hands felt when he held on for dear life.

There will be no presents today. No broken plans. Nothing to apologize for, and nothing to fight about.

So I guess I’ll give myself the gift of time.  It isn’t trapped inside of a hurled watch anymore, but swirls around me. My butterflies dance amidst its breeze.  Moving on is touchy, it trips on moments stuck in the past.  I’m hurrying it along now.  Remembering one good thing and a thousand bads.

Yes, we were never quite good at the big things.