sunday morning poetry 

I feel your fingers 

Cold on my shoulder 

Your chilling touch,

As it runs down my spine.

Watching your eyes

As they invade my soul,

Forbidden pleasures

I’m afraid to make mine.

At the touch of your hand 

At the sound of your voice 

At the moment your eyes meet mine 

I am out of my mind 

I am out of control 

Full of feelings I can’t define!

It’s a sin with no name 

Like a hand in a flame 

And our senses proclaim

It’s a dangerous game!

A darker dream 

That has no ending,

That’s so unreal

You believe that it’s true.

A dance of death 

Out of a mystery tale 

The frightened princess

Doesn’t know what to do.

Will the ghosts go away? 

No 

Will she will them to stay?

No 

Either way, there’s no way to win.

All I know is’ I’m lost 

And I’m counting the cost 

My emotions are in a spin.

I don’t know who to blame…

It’s a crime and a shame,

but it’s true all the same

It’s a dangerous game.

No one speaks

Not one word 

But what words are in our eyes.

Silence speaks 

Loud and clear 

All the words we don’t want to hear!

At the touch of your hand 

At the sound of your voice 

At the moment your eyes meet mine.

I am losing my mind 

I am losing control

Fighting feelings I can’t define.

It’s a sin with no name 

No remorse and no shame 

Fire, fury and flame!

Cause the devil’s to blame

And the angels proclaim,

It’s a dangerous game.

-Jekyll + Hyde

be at peace

Today, it is hot.

I can feel the heat washing over me; how I slowly begin to sweat, first on my brow, then under my arms. The sun is bright and I have to squint my eyes to see ahead of me on the road. I feel head-achy, as if some small person were taking a hammer and quietly hanging artwork in the home that is my mind. It’s not excruciating, just nagging. A little “tink”, “dink”, “boink” here and there.

I’ve started thinking about him again. After years of obsessing over him as a child, then 10 years without another thought, here he comes again, like lightning, sharp and bright, and unmistakable. I am like a cat on a hot tin roof, constantly looking over my shoulder, caught, startled out of deep thought. I am convinced everyone can read my thoughts on my face, like an open book. Surely they know I am guilty; guilty of the greatest sin. They cringe, are they laughing at me? I am sure it is as clear as a scarlet A on my chest.

But no, no one is looking at me. No one cares about me, or my thoughts. They ask me how I’m doing, ask how life is treating me, and I smile and say, “well, thank you.” They walk away, no more concerned with my thoughts than a sparrow is concerned with being able to fly. I let out a breath.

My “sin” is not a sin at all, although my conscience, ever wise and true, seems to nag at me that it is perverse in some way, and I should, by any means necessary, be rid of it. I had, for a while, banished all thoughts of him. I had closed every book, torn out every page of every journal that mentioned him, and sent it through the shredder. (The Romantic in me wished I had a fire to burn the pages in, but alas, I do not live in the 19th century. We owned a wood burning fireplace, but it was never lit.) I hid away the pictures and tucked away the letters I had written. Letters . . . letters to a dead man.

God, it’s so unbearably hot. I take off my coat, stopped at a red light on my way back. The air-conditioning is on full blast, as I am hoping the noise will drown out the buzzing of my thoughts. I reach for my phone.

“Do you remember how old we were when we used to pretend to be A and E?” I text my best friend, who grew up by my side, never once questioning the judgment of her 11 year old friend who pretended to be a girl in 19th century England, in love with a gentleman twice her age. Age, that ambiguous thing; it didn’t mean anything to me back then. You could tell me that I was 11 and you were 35 and that meant we were too far apart to ever be the same. But I would only shake my head and say, “So? What does it matter? It’s a number on a page, it doesn’t mean anything. You’re a person, and so am I.  You can talk, and so can I. You’re simply just trying to tell me that you’re wiser because your number is different looking than mine, and that doesn’t make any sense at all.” Ever since then, ever since discovering the man who changed my life forever, age has meant nothing to me. I have been in love with those 5 years younger than me, and those 25 years older. When I meet someone for the first time, I don’t see a number, I see a person, and that’s all we should see. What does it matter if someone is older or younger than is conventionally acceptable, when in relation to another human being? Why, why, why does age always get in the way of love? Always . . . always, always.

The light is green. Someone honks at me to go. I come to, and take off, embarrassed by my lack of concentration.

His voice – at least, the voice I imagined him to have – comes to me, with startling clarity, as if he is seated right next to me. (I laugh to myself, thinking about how horrified he would be at the sight of cars. “This machine! The logic of it makes no sense! How does it go so fast? It is terribly unsafe, is it not? You must slow down, please! 25 miles per hour seems far too fast, don’t you think?”) He is saying something, quietly, under his breath, about being lonely. He’s telling me to stop, please stop, just stop.

“It is so lonely, my dear. So lonely, living your life in a room by yourself. It is unbearable, the silence. The silence, it is deafening, it is weakening. Don’t be lonely. Don’t choose to live alone, like I did. You will regret it. Nothing is worth giving up on love for. Stop, please. Stop holding on to this, to me. Let me go, please. I want to rest. You need to be free. Stop this. Stop, please.” 

I read somewhere that if you hold onto the memory of someone after they’ve passed, they never really die. That’s how they become ghosts. You’re chaining them to the earth, making it impossible for them to be at peace. You have to let go of them to lose them. Am I chaining him here? Was he at peace, and I brought him back? I try to say something, but he doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t hear anything. I wish I could get him to say what I want to hear, but he is here only to say what is necessary. What I need to hear, not what I want.

I brought him back to life by reading a book. He filled the pages, his voice, his scent. He was so real. More real than any person I had met so far in my life. All the adults I knew seemed so fake. So intent on telling little girls like me that we know nothing of the world and never will. But he was not like that. He didn’t tell the girl in the story that she was too dumb, or too young, or too anything. He said she was perfect. He said she was smart. He treated her like every girl wants to be treated. Like a person. I projected myself onto the girl in the story, convincing myself her and I were one in the same, regardless of the 150 years that separated us. And if she was in love with him, then so was I. (Although, I will admit, it didn’t take much convincing for me to fall in love with him of my own accord.)

The one thing about me as a child is that I was never embarrassed or ashamed about anything I did or said. I was, without a doubt, 100% me. Although I loved this about myself, most people did not. I did not have many friends because they definitely labeled me as “the weird kid”. I played dress up and talked to myself or my imaginary friends constantly. For some reason, the kids I was around, were not like this. They were groomed by their parents to turn out just like themselves – incredibly smart, intimidating, popular, and boring. No one had an imagination, no one read any books, no one was unique. They bored me. It is, unfortunately, human nature to want to be liked. From far too early of an age, we groom ourselves to appear one way, to attract the attention and approval of other people. This mars us. It takes away our true selves, and in it’s place puts a piece of someone else’s ideals.

God it’s so hot. I look for the temperature reading but the sun glints off my dashboard making it impossible to read. I huff and pull at the collar of my shirt.

After the book, there were pictures. I printed out every picture I could find of him, and nearly everyone he had taken of her, or others. He was a photographer, and most of the portraits I had of him were self-portraits. I chose my favorite and put it in my locket. The locket I had been given by my grandmother, but for ages had kept empty because I never found anyone worthy enough to be encased in it. My first and biggest mistake was not telling my friends about the man in the book. No, it was wearing that damn locket. You can’t wear a locket and not have dirty, stubby little fingers trying to pry it from your neck and peek inside.

It was hard to explain to them, who he was or what he meant to me. The only one who didn’t question or judge me for it was my best friend. She would dress up with me, in our giant, Victorian dresses, and prance around the property that surrounded her family’s farm. It was there, away from prying eyes, that I acted out every fantasy I ever had. My best friend would write letters to me, pretending they were from him. Saying how he was sorry he had stayed away, that he would always love me, and that not even our cruel mother (for we pretended to be sisters, her and I) could keep him away from me. For that is the ending I wanted, the ending I wanted for him and her, that they never got. The story that I knew we would have had, had he and I known the privilege of each other’s company. 

I can feel my mind spinning in circles now. My thoughts are not cohesive any longer. When did I give up on him? When was it exactly that I had had enough of children laughing at me, and people not understanding any longer? I was young, so they excused me that, but it was still . . . odd. Here I was, barely a teenager, in love with a man – a real one, thank goodness – but someone who had been long gone for over a century. Someone who I didn’t know. Someone people called horrible, horrible things like a pedophile and an outsider. They ignored his brilliance in writing, his advances in the mathematical community, his eye for capturing beauty in the art of photography. People fear what they do not understand, and unfortunately his life left so many holes that people have filled with hate and evil and gossip and rumor. Why can’t people just leave be what they do not understand? Why can’t they, when presented with no solid answer, just leave it a mystery, rather than making up their own sordid account of what they think happened? Why are people so quick to see the evil in mankind rather than the good?

I don’t know . . . perhaps he was an evil man. But really, no. I don’t think he was. The letters and journals and stories he left behind show a man encased by a society who wouldn’t let him dream. Perhaps he went a little mad. Wouldn’t we all, if everyone were constantly telling us we were wrong, stupid, ignoble, ignorant, lost, lonely? He had no one, absolutely no one, who cared about him, until he met her, and then, something happened. She was taken away from him. He lost everything, in one, fail swoop. How could you not be crushed, in a moment, like that? I would be. I am, for him. I feel his loss, my heart breaks for the lonely and lost of the world. I cannot help but ache for those people.

Perhaps that is why I am so attached to him. I want to fix the hurting and the hopeless. I want to prove to those who say they are alone that they are anything but. I want to pick up the pieces and glue them back together with the steady hand of a tinker. But also, he has helped me. In a time in my life where I felt so misunderstood, so different, so alone, here came a man, a figure in the mist, who told me everything would be alright. Who became my best friend, when I had none. Who showed me love in the purest and simplest form. Who taught me to be brave and true to myself and that no one could stop me. I owe him so much.

How can you love someone you’ve never met? I don’t know. It was an instant, electric connection. I read his works, his letters, his journals. I saw every bit of him in every word, every mark he left on the world. I think it is almost a truer sense of love. I was not making any judgement of him based on appearance, income, or reputation. I took what he said, and I chose to believe every word. I didn’t let other people’s accounts of him mar my vision. I see him through rose colored glasses, the same glasses he saw the world through. The glasses that made him hopeful in the face of trial. Words are power, I’ve said it before, and all he left us were words. I’ve read them thousands of times over, and pieced together a man I believe was every bit as innocent as the children he surrounded himself with.  I was one of those children, decades later, who was enveloped by his stories, his wit and humor, his love . . .

I pull up to the curb and park. I turn off my engine and sit, the air silent and still. I roll down my window and a brush of air floats through, lifting the hair off my back, tickling my neck like the caress of fingers. I glance to my right, the seat next to me is empty. I can see the faint outline where his body would be, dressed in clothes outdated for this day and age. Do I hear something? I wait, still. Nothing. It’s getting hotter by the moment, the air stagnant again.

I should let him go. I should move on. Even after contemplating for this long, I have no good reason for him to appear so suddenly back into my life like he has. I was just overcome. I had an urge to rediscover what had fueled me before. It has terrified me, to reawaken this part of myself that I shut down so long ago. Rereading and learning things that, as a child, I did not fully understand. I see now, the places which caused others concern. I see the way words and looks and moments can be misinterpreted. It makes me cry, instantly, the cruelty of growing up: of moving on when you are not ready to. Who am I to say I could give this man the love he wanted? What does it matter that one person was unhappy? He is dead, and I cannot change the past. Why am I so hell bent on proving to the world that he was innocent? He’s not my concern.

And then you realize, these are words you say to yourself to prove you are not in love with a ghost. You’re not in love with someone who never looked at you with loving eyes. Who never said your name, or held your heart in his hands. You are in love with the idea of a man. But the idea does not the man make. You know nothing, and you shake your head because no reason, no logic, can make you feel any other way. And then you sigh, tears streaming down your face, because that, that is love.

“How strange and miraculous and unnerving it is to stumble accidentally on your capacity to open yourself so completely to someone else. To know you will always feel this way and that time can have no possible effect. To watch it, like a natural wonder, like Niagara Falls, the eternal feeling rising up inside of you, flowing with deafening force, glittering in the sun, even though it is of no practical use.”

It is finally too hot to remain still any longer. I open my door, fresh air bursting into my lungs like a tide, and look at the sky. When did it get so grey? Wasn’t the sun out just moments before? I finally take the time to read the temperature.

I look at the thermometer.

58 degrees F.

 

g i r l s

With the beginning of the end in sight, I thought it quite fitting to reflect upon one of my favorite television shows of all time, and how it has shaped my life and the person I am becoming everyday. As a 20 something myself, I easily identify with the cast of characters Lena Dunham has created, in a show that makes me feel good and bad and then good (again) about myself in a single, 45 minutes episode. This show is none other than HBO’s Girls .

Where to begin. This show has impacted me in so many ways, I’m actually so grateful Lena Dunham made this dream into a reality. In many ways I am just like each of these girls, and in other ways I am nothing like them. This show was taught me how to be and how not to be. If I had to pick one thing that I am convinced is the most important message of this show, it’s that we are not completely a Marnie, or totally a Shoshanna. We are, as girls, and as humans, a perfect blend of each. Ms. Dunham has done a remarkable job of portraying 4 entirely different personalities that bring out the best and the worst in each other, and through 6 seasons of highs and lows, I have grown to be so much more connected to myself, and the world around me, because of it.

For today, tomorrow, and Sunday, leading up to the season finale Sunday night at 10pm, I will be focusing on each character of Girls, talking about their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses, and ultimately, what we can learn from each of them.

Let’s be honest, I’m trying to make this sound all deep and purposeful, but I’m really just trying to find closure because my life will be so different once Girls is gone from it on Sunday!

Do any of you watch Girls? What are your thoughts on the show? I’d love to have a discussion!

Thanks, lovelies.

Es ist was es ist,

c.w. north

letters

Recently, I have been overcome with . . . that word that I can never place. Of feeling lost in the past. Sadness and yearning for the “good ole days”. What IS that called??

Reminiscent?

Melancholic?

I’m not sure.

At any rate, it is becoming most troublesome. It has been extremely hard to live life the past couple of weeks as I have been burdened by nearly every thought that passes my mind. It all started when I was going through my truck of letters that I keep locked at the foot of my bed. I don’t know what on earth possessed me to go through them, but es ist was es ist. I have hundreds of letters, and I am not exaggerating. I have letters from best friends, ex-best friends, enemies, lovers, ex-lovers . . . I have always been one to keep every letter I receive because letters are a dying art. With Facebook, smart phones, and even email, it’s just so much easier and faster to send a quick thought, rather than take time to hand write pages upon pages of words.

This is my theory: words are not as special as they used to be. Nowadays, I am witness to countless relationships – those of my own very dear friends – that fall apart, broken, because people spoke words they did not mean, or spoke them prematurely, without understanding the weight and the meaning they held.

This is a tragedy.

Even I have said words I did not mean – to people I sincerely loved! – thinking it was the right time and the right way to show them that I cared. But if words are spoken hastily and without grave consideration, you can shatter even the most precious things to you. I speak from experience. Heed my warning, for your sake. I care too much about you, dear reader, to see you hurt like I have been hurt, or hurt like I have hurt others. These letters of mine, that I have stumbled upon again, remind me every day of the things I have lost and the lessons I have learned. I am glad I have them, even if they sting a little every now and again. You can’t save every text conversation or email the way you save letters, now can you?

“But letters are so bulky! You’d need storage bins for a lifetime of letters, C.W.! At least I can save my emails and messages without taking up so much physical space.”

Yes, yes, yes. I see your point. But I will always believe there is something so undeniably special and irreplaceable about holding a letter from a loved one in your hands. The feeling you get is indescribable. You don’t get that kind of feeling but only from a letter. The fact that the person spent so much time – possibly hours! – upon crafting a note of sentiment for you, and only you . . . I live for that feeling: to feel it, and in return help others feel that way too. Everyone needs to feel that loved, at some point in their lives.

My trunk of letters contain stacks tied up in silk ribbons, each a different color which represents a particular person. I have a rather small stack, from a boy I loved when I was a teenager. Actually, if I am being complete honest with you, it would be more truthful to say these letters were from a boy I thought I loved. But in reality, I did not. Not really. These are the only love letters I have ever received.  Therefore, they are special to me, even if him and I didn’t end up together, and in fact, haven’t seen each other in approximately 2 years now. Not even passing on the street because he has moved away. The funny thing is, well, there’s this quote, from a favorite book of mine that says “men never know their own minds. We have to make them up for them.” In a way, this is true – at least, it was in this particular situation. I was almost positive of his intentions towards me, but it wasn’t enough for me to trust in glances and sighs to get the point across. I simply had to say something. I had to write down how I felt and send him a letter. This is always my instinct, when I am feeling any sort of strong emotion. I write it down. It is so much easier to say what one means if you write it down, rather than just stumbling over the words as they are sent flying from your mouth.

I sent him a letter. He wrote back. He felt the same way.

“You knew I would reply, didn’t you? I mean, really, you couldn’t write me a perfectly beautiful letter like that and then not expect I would have something to say in return . . . ‘Today I fell in love again’. A bold statement, no? And yet with you, it’s so easy to believe. After all, why wouldn’t I fall in love with you? Not only are you the best friend I’ve ever had, but meeting you is one of the greatest things to ever happen to me.”

If I did not have these letters, how would I ever remember that those words – such emotional, sentimental words! – were ever spoken about me? Me of all people; so undeserving of any kind of love, ever.

Another letter, more achingly lovesick words, after a “falling out” of sorts happened that ruined any chance we had of being together.

“I still care about you immensely. You know that. I’ll still wait for you, as long as it takes, and there is no way I could ever forget you.”

Oh, but he did, and how quickly too, when I told him that I had no intention of trying to make things work any longer. But instead of just telling him my anxiety about our situation, I told him I never loved him in the first place. His reply was with none other than a letter; a letter that spoke words I no longer associate with the boy I once knew. For he no longer feels this way towards me. I suppose that is just what happens when you break someone’s heart. They don’t take kindly to it, do they?

“By now I’m sure we can say that the secret romantic relationship we had is over – it’s been over for quite some time, really, and I think we knew at the time that whatever ended up happening between the two of us, it wasn’t going to stay exactly that way forever . . . I would have liked to say that I thoroughly enjoyed being in love with you . . . it could be that you didn’t mean any of those things, but you don’t have to tell me. If you were to tell me it was a mistake for me to give you my heart, I’d tell you it was the best mistake I ever made. But I don’t believe it was a mistake. Perhaps some people come into our lives at just the right time, not sooner, not later, for exactly the right reasons. And I am still incredibly thankful that you came into my life just when you did. You gave me an eternity within a numbered amount of days, and I still like to consider myself the luckiest human in the world for ever having the privilege of loving you.”

A month later, I heard from another friend that he had burned all the letters I had ever sent to him. I’m not even exaggerating. It happened. And he told me to my face, with real, spoken words that ring in my ears even to this day, that he couldn’t believe he ever fell in love with me. That he couldn’t believe he had ever found me beautiful, or smart, or funny. I had become, in his eyes, someone who was no longer trustworthy, or worthy at all, of any kind of affection. And I do regret it. All the things I had said and then taken back. I had no intention of hurting him, or anyone. You must be wondering why I would ever keep such letters! Don’t they just stir up memories I’d rather forget? Well, the answer is, truthfully, no. I don’t want to forget, ever. These letter serve to remind me that I am capable of great love and great destruction. I have the power to bruise and to heal, and I don’t want to abuse that power ever again. That is my vow.

Words are life. Remember this.

Goodnight,

c.w. north

that piece of childhood

I was overcome, a few days ago, to look suddenly for an old locket I had when I was little, and wore every single day of my childhood.

I can not seem to place it.

I haven’t looked *every where* for it yet, but it haunts me throughout my day when I’m not at home, and I think through all my memories of where I could have possibly hid it.

For I did hide it. It isn’t something I wear with much pride anymore, like I did as a child. A locket is, unfortunately, one of those things one cannot wear in the twenty-first century without having some noisy prick asking who’s picture you keep inside. That is the most annoying and extremely rude thing I could ever think to ask someone. For anyone with a brain knows that lockets are special, secretive and, always, romantic in nature. You don’t go around asking all your friends who their crushes are (at least, I certainly hope young people don’t do that to each other nowadays!) and you certainly don’t ask to see who’s in their locket!

This is the part where you’re certainly thinking, “who is in C.W.’s locket? I simply must know!” Well, sorry to disappoint, but even now I will not say. I’m older and wiser, and that means it’s more important than ever to keep the identity of my locket-lover secret.

I will say this. He is no longer with us. He died quite a long time ago; so long ago in fact that I never actually met him. I never got to say his name with my lips, or have him turn upon hearing it. But that is alright, because I have always been an ardent believer in true love and soulmates, and sometimes one’s soulmate defies even the laws of time.

I am also, however, not one to dwell in impossibilities. I realize that loving someone who is gone is most always painful and hopeless. I try to remain in the present, but I will admit there are times when I feel so lonely I can’t help but be drawn into the past, wishing beyond all reason that I could speak with the dead.

This is all sounding terribly Gothic, isn’t it? I fear I am spilling more of my soul than I intended.

My point is this. Remember the people you loved through your lifetime. You know (I know you do) that there is one person you cannot shake hold of; who constantly reminds you of who you are supposed to be, who knows your short comings, failings, darkest dreams and desires, your greatest hopes and wishes, your strengths and passions…

And that person may not be real, or you may have never met them before, or they may be cold in their grave. But don’t let anyone tell you they are not important. Only you get to decide who is important in your life, who is worth your time, and who is worth giving your love to.

I am going to go home tonight and look for that locket of mine. I am going to tear apart my room if I have to, to find it. And I think I may start wearing it again, on a long chain, that sinks below the collar of my shirt, away from prying eyes. It’ll sit on that chain right next to my heart, where my love resides, free to give to whomever I wish.

Rest in peace, my darling.

Es ist was es ist,

c.w. north

 

 

 

for better or for worse

You fear, sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? My dear…I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you the more have I lov’d. In every way – even my jealousies have been agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever had I would have died for you. I have vex’d you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass’d my window home yesterday, I was fill’d with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time. You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov’d your Beauty. Have I nothing else then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnish’d with wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy – but I will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must I feel for you knowing you love me. My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment – upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses.” – John Keats

~

Recently, I became engaged to the love of my life.

I don’t know about you, but I believe in love at first sight. You can only really believe it once it happens to you. I used to be a skeptic, but once the love of my life walked into the room and we locked eyes, I knew. He is everything I ever dreamed of and more. He is smart, sweet, funny, nerdy, sexy, goofy, and kind. He’s got great abs too! Man, I really hit the jackpot with this one. Of course, if I said he was all those things to his face, he would deny it. He is a humble one, my man.

Our love story isn’t that *exciting* or *dramatic* if those are words you would choose. But it is our love story so it’s just perfect enough for us. After we first met, I pined after him for a year and a half (those were obviously the worst days of my life.) Then, one day I must have been annoying enough that he thought asking me out would shut me up! Haha, kidding, kidding. He asked me out to coffee and well, it’s been many cups of coffee shared since then. We love all the same things such as music, coffee, poetry, literature, theatre, and art. He’s a real renaissance man. (That’s actually the farthest thing from the truth! He is the guitarist in a metal band, and the drummer in an emo rock band. The renaissance part is hidden inside.)

I used to believe I would never get married, or want to get married. But when that one person comes along and floats into your life, you really have no choice but to give into the wonderful experience of falling in love.

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Also: I said “I love you” first and he said “thanks” back, so I think I win an award for “most dedicated and unperturbed lover.” Luckily for me, 4 months later he said “I love you” too and I finally got to say it back (since I didn’t dare utter the words again with the kind of response I got the first time!)

I guess I should try to be serious at least a little on this subject. If I were to say one thing about love, that I would hope someone would listen to and take to heart, it would be this: Love is commitment, and a one shot, hit or miss deal. When you say “I do”, you are saying for better or for worse. You’re saying, “if you turn out to be someone other than the person I thought you were, it doesn’t matter. I will stick by your side forever because I promised I would. It doesn’t matter if anyone else comes in my life who I think is cute or smart or funny. They’re not you. They aren’t the person I said yes to forever with. You are my one and only love and that’s just how it is.” So don’t say “I love you” and don’t say “I do”unless you are willing to commit yourself to a lifetime with the one person you want by your side.

Yeah, it’s terrifying. That’s why I don’t take it lightly. I’m scared do death to say “I do” on my wedding day, but I’m more scared of being alone, and sad, and having an empty life. I’m more afraid of those things than thinking I’ve made a mistake in my choice of companionship. Luckily for me, I’m madly in love with my man, and even when we argue and disagree, we love each other enough to work through it in preparation for our future. It’s always been worth it. He’s always been worth it.

I wish you the best in your romantic endeavors. Love is never in vain. Don’t give up, and remember to respect yourself enough to find someone who loves you like they should.

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.” – Ray Croft

Es ist was es ist

c.w.

 

why are people fake?

I find that I’ve met a lot of people in my life who are, essentially, superficial. This is disappointing.

I admit I have been superficial at times in my own life, to other people, more than once. I have been caught up in gossip and rumor and appearances, looking to these things as the sole source of satisfaction and worth. Since turning 20! (I always refer to my age with an exclamation point, because each year I get older is a means of celebration that I did not somehow manage to get myself killed through my previous 365 days of existence. This is a miracle that stupefies me.) I came to the realization that people do not make you happy. People disappoint you and often cause you to regret ever becoming close with anyone, let alone telling them your deepest and darkest secrets. I’ve had so many secrets told in my short time alive that I have come to the conclusion that the only way possible not to have your secrets told, is to not do anything in life that warrants keeping your actions a secret. This is my new life motto.

When I was around age 13-18, I hung out with the most cliche group of young adults. There were the pretty girls that every boy around was in love with. There were the stupid boys who didn’t have a clue that every girl was in love with them.  There were the immatures and the “think-they-are-wise-beyond-their-years.” Jocks and hot-to-trots. Dicks and whiny pricks. I’ve seen it all. Where did I fit in these categories? Um…how about the slightly okay looking, sort of chubby, wise cracking “best friend.” The Duff.

Hahahahaha okay okay not the Duff. I have enough self respect to realize that now. But in all honesty, I really was the “best friend” type. Meaning everyone – boys and girls alike – were my “best friend”, but I was never theirs. Allow me to elaborate:

You ever had a friend who you were like “yes, we’re best friends! I choose you as my friend above friends!” and they were like “Yeah me too! Except you’re like second on my list, because *Sara* is already my best best friend?

Yeah…I was that person. It was always a the three musketeers, never Holmes and Watson. A word to the wise: If anyone tells you that you’re not their best best friend, after you tell them that they are yours, dump them immediately. You are special and do not deserve to play second fiddle to another person’s ego. Put an ad in the paper and continue the search for high-quality best friendom.

Now, this does not mean that you can’t still be simple, bottom of the totem pole, just friends with the other person. In fact, that kind of friendship is easy and has no pressure! It’s the best. It’s the bottom of the totem pole, after all. It’s the base. It holds relationship status’ together. But there is nothing like having a best friend. *sigh* I had a best friend once. Then she turned into a back stabbing, psycho bitch! LOL but really. Three years and you think we’d mean a lot to each other but one day she decided she’d rather have *wealth* and *status* and *class* over little ole me. That’s fine, I’m really okay. To each his own.

No, I’m crushed. I finally found a best best friend, and then she decided I wasn’t worth her time. I wasn’t interesting anymore. I wasn’t funny anymore. Truth of the matter is, I was and still am interesting and funny. Her perception of me has changed, and I just wish she would say those words instead of being a fake little prat. Hence the point of this post and people being fake.

Why I am *so* ultimately frustrated with my ex-best friend is because I miss her. I miss what we had and the fact that I can’t pin-point the exact time and place that it all started to go wrong. If I had to pick, I’d say it was when we went on a 3 day road trip together to see two of my favorite celebrities on tour.  She bought me the tickets for my birthday. I think that trip started to show us our differences, and how she was changing, and I was not. There is nothing wrong with change, but deep down inside, I think she’s upset that she’s not the same person, and therefore isn’t interested in me anymore. I wish she would just accept this instead of trying to make me fit into her new mold of what a good friend should be. I could go on for hours and hours about what she does now that frustrates me. All the nitty gritty details of her new obsessions and lifestyle choices. But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to do that because picking on another person’s traits is not going to make me feel better, or bring back the old best friend I had. I need to accept who she is and be okay with the fact that the person she is now is not someone I desire to keep around in my life. If she had been this person the day I met her, we wouldn’t ever have become friends in the first place. So I really need to act like it’s all starting over, except with a different ending I may not like

Letting go is so hard. Especially when you know you’re making the right decision but it’s not what you want to accept as best. People can be toxic, and so many people we meet nowadays are so fake. If I could tell you one thing it would be to save your words for the people who really mean something to your life. Don’t call someone your friend if you’re not sure you’ll get along in the future. Don’t call someone your best friend if they’re not someone you could see in your life 15 years from now. Don’t say “I Love You” if you’ve only got butterflies and not rock-solid truth. Be careful with your words. Give them out like your heart-strings. You’ve only got so many, and you can’t afford to lose them.

Why are people fake? Because they are human. They lie and cheat and steal, but they also ask forgiveness. They grow and change and mold themselves to the time and the place they are put. Don’t forget to give a little grace and spare some kindness. But remember to let go if you must, because at the end of the day, you must do what makes you happy, and do what’s best for you.

es ist was es ist,

c.w.