For The Girl Who Fools Herself.

What lies you feed yourself. Completely fabricating truths that you hope make you feel better. I know you want to leave the past behind you. But it follows you closely like a shadow in the dark. Like the footsteps you hear in a blackened alley. So you walk faster, taking strides that only giants take. You tell yourself what you want to hear. And you tell others what you think they need to hear. “I’m over it. I don’t even think about it.” You are just a broken record now. But I wonder who you are really trying to convince. It couldn’t be me. I believed you at first, but now I see the story you have written for what it truly is. A fiction that is drenched in deceit. Only it isn’t deceit to me, to me it is sadness. To you it is fraud. Justifying every movement, every word. Defensive is an understatement. I see now where this is going and I don’t really want to see the outcome. It scares me. Everything that has layered over time and all has been placed in a box in your heart. It is bound to escape. It is insecure and explosive. You cannot outrun this. She is right on your heels. And as you attempt to stay in your stride, you fall flat on your face. Cutting your hands, bruising your knees, scratching your face. And as you turn around, helpless on the alley pavement. There she is. Truth, hurt, pain, jealousy, hate, hovering overtop of you. You never escaped her. You fooled yourself and because of that, reality grew very large and leaned in for the kiss of death. It’s over now. All you told yourself. The game you played, you know- the one where you were a convincing act. True to the eyes, but unbelievable in reality. It is sad to see and my heart knows how you feel. Funny thing is, we can’t run fast enough to get far enough away from what is and will always be there. So maybe there is some trick. Tell me if you ever find it. But maybe there is a way that we can walk with it without the wrenching pain it seems to bestow upon us.

From Lessons Learned.

I am a human. Just a creature with a heart as a compass and two feet as my transport. It is inevitable that I will make mistakes while being led by a young and naive heart. But it is guaranteed that I’ll receive forgiveness. The hardest part though, is learning to forgive myself. Because it is kind of like that itch that never goes away. Irritating your skin till its dry and sore. I question constantly where this forgiveness comes from. The answer is still uncertain. I regret little in my life, but the few things that linger in my soul I hold close to my heart. I let them control my compass. They are a reminder of who I once was and the choices I once made. They are lessons learned.
Guilt is a poison. It knows this way of slowly seeping into your breath. It enters your brain. Your heart. Unveiling itself in an art that only guilt knows. It wraps around your feet and travels upward leaving your body in a cast. Stiff and awkward. And sometimes when you try to break the cast, it feels as if it just added 10 more layers all while mocking your brave attempts.
The compass I carry is sometimes incredibly heavy, and sometimes it feels as if it has feet. Sometimes it feels like my greatest accomplishment and other times it feels like my darkest secret. It’s a combination of success and failure. It has knee deep scratches and smudges that rub off easy. There are times when I know I am not the one bearing it. It is sustained by something much larger than itself. Much larger than myself. But as I ramble on with my feet and compass, one thing is certain, that forgiveness eliminates guilt and forgiveness offers freedom. There will always be what once was, there will always be what is to come, and there will always be choice. I can only pray that I choose what is just.

Just A Mess.

The lump in my throat continues to grow. It becomes almost suffocating as I tell myself to remember to breathe. Each breath aches like that pounding organ in my chest. Swallowing takes a special technique. You have to maneuver the air to move past that lump in your throat. Just practice. In time you will master it. My palms sweat like I've been holding on to some rope for dear life. Time moves fast but everything feels slow. The butterflies that dance in my stomach are really just the acids that exist. Butterfly sounds prettier, but acid is the way that I feel now. Nostalgic and restless, like the most important part of me is about to be ripped away. Once again time found its way to close in. There is a slow decay. Patience wears thin and cynicism creeps. I’ve been here before. A silence burns in the air. Inhale the fumes and exhale sadness. It’s heavy and it leaves my lungs raw. A missing is about to occur. The way your neck misses a scarf in the fall or the way your hands miss mittens in the winter. Technology suppresses a small amount of the pain and love conquers it. But the hearts of two so intertwined still miss. They feel the separation, the bleeding of a severed part. They feel uncertain of how to live apart when they are meant to be as one. I feel now as though I’m in a strange land, with unfamiliar streets and unwelcoming sidewalks. I have been lingering for a moment too long. Act fast. Time will always tick. Only action will be the bearer of success. No more strings hold me. No more burdens ride me. It’s just me left and you waiting. Your hand stretches far and your voice is calling me home. So as I feel this missing, I sense the end is near. This lump will retire and we can breathe together.

Low And Behold. Real Men Do Exist.

He rides in on his white mustang. He is the one you can hear yards away. You can hear the clanging of the steeds shoes as they trot proudly on the sidewalk. You can hear the females swoon. Which is followed shortly by the thump that echoes as they faint when he smiles upon them. He finds his satisfaction in the eyes of daughters. Their approval and lustful gazes are his motivation. Being faced with a challenge is merely a game, and openly accepted. It is an act that he has rehearsed and knows inside and out, backwards and forwards. He knows just how to win them over. How to stroke their arm during a friendly conversation, make just the right amount of eye contact and how to keep their stare upon him as he exits a room and glances over his shoulder only to match their pupils to his. Executed to perfection. Another success, another victim to his charm.
He walks the streets in his statement shoes. Quiet and artsy. Humble and searching. He brushes shoulders with the charmer and apologizes, hardly looking up from his shoes. Not because he is intimidated, rude, or complacent. He is just focused, kind, meek. His eyes are the ones she desires. While many are chasing this so called man on his horse, she can see that he is only a reproduction, a carbon copy of the stereotype that exists in this world. Nothing that would interest her. But this other, he is a man. The real kind. Built with humility, selflessness, rooted in love. His heart is locked into the all the things that have been forgotten. So many attributes have fallen by the waste side in this world, they have been trampled on, ignored, scrutinized, but he has uncovered them. The true man has discovered what exists amongst the forgotten, that which has been thrown to the dogs. With carefulness he has cleaned them, with diligence he has studied them and with perseverance he has practiced them. It runs within his veins and she is drawn into his uniqueness, his mystery. His shoes are worn and tired. It isn’t easy to be what so many are not. And as charmer falls off his high horse, the other one picks him up and shows him how to walk. So he leads by example. Placing one foot before the other. Determined, yet conscious. Never claiming to be perfect or pretending he has is all together. For he is as real as they come. For he is a man.

A Lover's Embrace.

The deepest pain cannot be described with words. The saddest of all tears cannot be explained in 100 letters. The strongest love cannot be expressed by a minimal conversation or a translucent cliche. For emotion is far too complex. And all of these are much bigger than that instinctive state of mind that we all arrive at due to circumstance, mood, or relationship. It would only seem foolish and destructive to sit here and attempt to do the impractical. But here I sit, and I’m not the first.
Their hearts lie beneath the roof of an empty cottage. In a world where she and him know only each other. Windows yawning, bird songs echo, and a door painted red. This is reality. Eyes speak words and hands grasp love. The boy and girl have it all. But the lover knows what lies ahead of them, he is cautious. And the beloved has taught herself how to dissemble the idea that there is anything bigger than the moment.
Their enemies shadow lurks around every corner of the cottage, planning its newest attack. It must be more effective than the last, for he seeks disaster and heart ache. Last time only failure, so he prays for success. Most call him time, but the two call him good-bye. He lingers among them, making sure his presence is not only known, but felt. Inside that red painted door two hearts are becoming one, knowing its only moments before time forces its good-bye. They hold each other closer, harder, hoping for a chance that time may freeze. Trying to ignore the exhaust that is straining their souls. Dreaming that tears won’t have to fall this time. Their hold is pure and raw, the way it was designed. A lover’s embrace is too intimate and perfect in its most vulnerable form. She and him have no words left to speak, they let their hearts communicate as they loose themselves in seas of green and brown.
The attack has begun and it seems to be successful. Windows seal, birds fall silent and that very red door flies open. Could it be the last time? Tears fall from both sets of eyes and breathing complicates itself. Heart break sets in. He is pulled from the cottage as his fingers bruise the floor. She’s trapped inside, to fragile to be breathed upon. But as their hearts are raged against and there bodies are left defeated, love strikes back. For nothing is as strong as this. They are yet to beat this fateful curse, but victory is not far from where they are.

The Life Of A Vendor.

His life is circumstantial. Untouched with his own hands, he never had a choice. He was not the creator. If he did have an alternative, he was unaware of how to break his surroundings and live the life he catered to everyday. His pregnant mother looked into his soul and saw opportunity. She saw his big eyes, his cute face and she saw a means to an end. Or at least enough to make it through another day. For them it truly was another day- another dollar. So she sent him to the streets after coaching him to be persistent and offer everyone he crossed something they never really needed. She told him that selling was everything. Soon to be a brother and being the man of the house he was meant to provide. Responsibility was thrust upon him, yet another circumstantial incident. Product in hand and the words of his mother playing in his head he wandered the the streets every night. Entering restaurants, standing outside bars, prowling the uneven sidewalks for any traveling souls who may feel any amount of sympathy. Getting lost in his oversized eyes was more than easy for them. It paid. So his childhood was lost to a job. When he turned 17, he was so sick and tired of the rocky paths and late night shifts he took his circumstantial life and turned a new leaf.
It was time to spend his days on the beach, in the hot sun. You can’t shake circumstance though. His background, all the past events of his life, all the incidences and occurrences, they had all led to this moment. And although he now spent his days in the shining sun and on the heated sand he was still a salesman. So he wandered the beach all day long. Passing resort after resort. Tourist after tourist. Gazing into the phenomenon that his life never was. It wasn’t long into his 18th year he realized how deep envy had settled into his bones. Jealousy for what he never had and resent for the world he was born into were beginning to invade his heart. Seeing these people living hollywood lifestyles, drinking fancy drinks, wearing the latest fashion, sporting the coolest trend, he couldn’t help but wonder what this life was truly like.
Year in and year out, each passing like a moment lost in time he kept the same job. Admiring others and dreaming about their lives. Longing to be a part of their world and removed from his own. Feeling so close and miles away all at once. He wished as he bartered over cheap silver and imitation sunglasses, with the same routine, same lines, same tactics. It was all a performance. So rehearsed that thinking was minimal. It always ended the same way, both vendor and tourist walking away, smile on face, cash or item in hand, believing that the other had just been ripped off, so proud of their deceit. As he performed each day he watched the people in the resorts. Making orders, demanding this, wanting that, and the whole while getting their way. He watched them enjoy their selfish cravings. He saw their smiles plastered on their faces, so perfect they looked like plastic. But as he grew wiser he noticed their smiles would melt after a period of time. He heard their requests turn into complaints and frustration. He heard the tone in their voices as they grilled into the employees as if they were so much better than them. He saw their happiness as temporary. And he started to step back from the glass he had once watched behind.
It took 30 years for this vendor too realize what was truly happening. It took him 30 years to see what the men and women in the resorts were really like. 30 years for envy and bitterness to fade away. 30 years to see that what he had was something they would never covet. He had everything they didn’t. He had freedom, love, contentment. And for them nothing was ever good enough. Nothing ever satisfied. They had tasted what money could buy, but they were missing everything it couldn’t. Their happiness was never joy. Just another emotion that would come and pass when boredom settled in. Now at 48 this vendor holds the world. He’s tasted love, he’s felt joy, he’s experienced pain. Contentment is his middle name and his story is one that will change lives. These are the circumstances that have formed him. For the bitterness of yesterday had fallen from his skin and the freedom of today made its home in his heart.

Right In Between.

The sound of raindrops sets the mood. Their cries echo in the cold concrete room. The rain leaves me feeling jaded and cynical. Leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Every drop, every sound resonates so closely that it feels as if they shake the ground I am standing on. The room is dingy, bitter, raw. The only illumination is an almost lifeless bulb. It flickers somewhere high in the distant sky, or whatever void my shaky heart beats beneath. The light is so vague and all it offers is the shadow of my flawed and callused feet. They point in the direction of an ambiguous staircase. Taking a few steps forward I find myself standing at the bottom of the narrow stairs, facing an undetermined future. I feel helpless and cowardly. The numbing floor has frozen my feet and thinking I am smarter than my circumstances I convince myself that the first step couldn’t be as bad as what I currently face. Courage has drawn me close. Grabbing the damp, chilled railing of the slim stairs I take my first step. Overly confident and borderline cocky, I slip. And finding myself right back at the beginning shouting in frustration. The tears roll down porcelain cheeks but are thwarted in their path as they freeze mid-cheek. My face feels cracked and unfamiliar. A wind passes through, and quieter than a single breath a whisper says, “try again.” Options few, my hands clutch the tight railings of the restricted staircase. This time, using a little more caution and a lot more faith I find myself standing on the first step. Two, three, four, five. Climbing higher and higher. The narrow staircase makes me feel inadequate yet liberated. The raindrops that once left me cynical and jaded, I now find an encouraging melody. I am still flawed. I am still in pieces. But there is something about the light that flickers in the distance. It tempts me to come farther. It gives off some ounce of warmth that the cold and solid floor couldn’t offer. So in the midst of tears and brokenness, raindrops soaking my heads, I continue my climb up a narrow staircase.