We as humans can rationalize anything. We have the special and inherent ability, in any situation, to effortlessly justify our actions and convince ourselves that we made the right decision, despite the overwhelming evidence stacked against us, despite the lie detector hooked to our arms and despite the possibility of an ever watchful and ubiquitous God. We can, in good conscious, rest our hands on the bible and solemnly swear to tell our truths, regardless of whether or not these truths actually exist or manifest in reality or follow the laws of logic. My alcoholic friends justify drinking all winter long as a means to keep warm, my good friend’s crack-addicted mother remedied the dirty dishes piling to overwhelming heights in the sink by breaking every last piece of her china on the kitchen floor. Believers just as easily justify death: “She’s in a better place now,” they say, looking up towards the heavens knowingly.
Last month, I attended a funeral. I cried. Everyone did. And it felt so incredibly human. But why did we weep? Did we cry because we knew we would miss our loved individual, or did we cry because that death was just another reminder of our own transience, because there is a possibility that there is not a life beyond this one, and in that moment, we were truly terrified? Is this fear of our own mortality the reason why we try to invent purpose in our lives? Is this fear of an eminent and eventual death the reason why so many of us search for something outside of ourselves for some sort of implicit meaning? Perhaps this is why Kierkegaard wanted us to re-examine the story of Abraham, not simply because believers were attempting to understand his truly alienated experience—casually, aloofly and recklessly embracing the ineffable that was his ethical struggle, and chalking it up as simply a testament of his faith—but to remind us that we should be invested in this lifetime, and not the possibility of the next. Kierkegaard not only reveals the daunting steps one must take to achieve his idea of true faith—the commitment, the disappointment, the resignation, and finally the leap—but he also unearths what lies at the core of faith: passion.
It “…is a marvel,” Kierkegaard explains, “and yet no human being is excluded from it; for that in which all human life is united is passion” (Kierkegaard 95). Having passions and faith in these passions is vital, Kierkegaard argues, because they are the fuels that feed our wills to live. As humans, we are designed to seek out meaning. There is an inherent need within us all to have a purpose. Our passions and our faith in these passions are our purpose. These passions are not assigned to us. You will not find them in any library or archive, and there are no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, breadcrumb trails or wishing wells to guide us to them. Our passions and our faith come from within us, and Kierkegaard underscores that we must embrace and live these passions with every fiber of our beings, despite how irrational they are, despite the likelihood of their manifestations, and despite the status quo, because they are what keep us alive and grounded to this lifetime. And just as Abraham’s dilemma was his alone to fathom, our passions and the nurturing of our own narratives are ours and ours alone to compse.
I remember towards the end of the funeral, the woman leading the service concluded with this piece of advice: “We should not ask questions of “why”, but how can we move on and continue to live despite death?” I believe Kierkegaard would endorse this sentiment steadfastly and wholeheartedly, because he says it is essential that we be invested in this lifetime, because the future is uncertain and we should cherish and revel in what we have today.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
the month the sun didn't set.
As the sun slowly slipped across the sky—
waxing proudly at the crest of the heavens,
bathing everything within its reach
in a thick balm of amber and honey
warmer than the fervent intoxication
succeeding the strongest drink,
marking high noon—
I watched as it took its brief seat
at the head of the table.
I noticed that my shadow
had disappeared completely
and suddenly understood how Peter Pan
must have felt when he lost his.
I ran inside to collect a needle and
some thread, in case I had to stitch it back to my soles.
When I emerged, I found that my shadow had not yet returned.
I waited patiently—and still my shadow did not reappear.
As I anxiously searched for it under the rocking chairs
and the ashtrays, I noticed the heat of the day on my back.
I looked up and saw that the sun had not moved
from its position at midday.
Others noticed.
The national news was quick to pick up on the story.
The scientists and the experts had no explanations.
Believers knew it was a sign of the Apocalypse.
Alaskans merely laughed, all too accustomed to weeks of sunlight.
A few simply chalked the phenomenon up to
an unusually hot August.
And yet, no one was at all that alarmed
until the skies refused to rain.
As predicted, that night
the sun did not set.
Clouds gathered, and heat lightning
spindled across the sky,
teasing the fields below.
Children danced about, carrying umbrellas,
hoping the motion might elicit rain.
As they tired, unsuccessful, they retreated inside
to cool off, only to find
that their popsicles had melted
and the ice-cubes had dissolved in their trays.
The next day, the sun hadn't budged.
Flowers began to wilt and the vegetables dried up.
Water began to evaporate out of swimming pools,
leaving behind salty trails of chlorine and bleach.
Some flocked to the grocery stores
to stock up on bottled water
and to cool off in the frozen foods section,
standing, for hours at a time, in front of the freezers.
Still, the sun did not set.
Electric plants overheated.
and power was shut off,
blacking out the world.
Rivers and lakes began to dry up,
and their sandy beaches coagulated into sheets of glass.
Carpenters went out of business
for their craft was too dangerous to execute
and their work was too flammable to own.
Trees caught fire, their leaves burning
into ash and falling like snow.
Fields of sunflowers and solar panels were cut down
out of fear that they were attracting too much heat.
Still the sun did not set.
Some tried to radio the astronauts,
asking them if they had any instruments
to induce an eclipse.
Some flew magnets to the moon,
tying the attractors to weather balloons and carrier pigeons,
hoping to nudge the satellite—others flocked to the shores,
throwing their bodies against the waves,
attempting to change the tides.
Plumbers constructed chutes and pipes to the sky,
trying to funnel rain from the clouds.
Oil tankers used their drills to tap for clean drinking water.
Still, the sun did not set.
The seas began to boil.
One could light a match by merely holding it outside.
Sun rashes intensified to burns of the third degree.
Hair began to singe.
And just as people’s skin began to melt off their bones,
the sun began to sink.
The world froze.
Once again, the scientists and the experts had no explanations.
Believers believed they had been saved by a miracle.
Alaskans bitterly returned to their ice castles.
I checked the calendar and noticed that August had finally ended,
and knew I would not be vacationing in the South that winter.
waxing proudly at the crest of the heavens,
bathing everything within its reach
in a thick balm of amber and honey
warmer than the fervent intoxication
succeeding the strongest drink,
marking high noon—
I watched as it took its brief seat
at the head of the table.
I noticed that my shadow
had disappeared completely
and suddenly understood how Peter Pan
must have felt when he lost his.
I ran inside to collect a needle and
some thread, in case I had to stitch it back to my soles.
When I emerged, I found that my shadow had not yet returned.
I waited patiently—and still my shadow did not reappear.
As I anxiously searched for it under the rocking chairs
and the ashtrays, I noticed the heat of the day on my back.
I looked up and saw that the sun had not moved
from its position at midday.
Others noticed.
The national news was quick to pick up on the story.
The scientists and the experts had no explanations.
Believers knew it was a sign of the Apocalypse.
Alaskans merely laughed, all too accustomed to weeks of sunlight.
A few simply chalked the phenomenon up to
an unusually hot August.
And yet, no one was at all that alarmed
until the skies refused to rain.
As predicted, that night
the sun did not set.
Clouds gathered, and heat lightning
spindled across the sky,
teasing the fields below.
Children danced about, carrying umbrellas,
hoping the motion might elicit rain.
As they tired, unsuccessful, they retreated inside
to cool off, only to find
that their popsicles had melted
and the ice-cubes had dissolved in their trays.
The next day, the sun hadn't budged.
Flowers began to wilt and the vegetables dried up.
Water began to evaporate out of swimming pools,
leaving behind salty trails of chlorine and bleach.
Some flocked to the grocery stores
to stock up on bottled water
and to cool off in the frozen foods section,
standing, for hours at a time, in front of the freezers.
Still, the sun did not set.
Electric plants overheated.
and power was shut off,
blacking out the world.
Rivers and lakes began to dry up,
and their sandy beaches coagulated into sheets of glass.
Carpenters went out of business
for their craft was too dangerous to execute
and their work was too flammable to own.
Trees caught fire, their leaves burning
into ash and falling like snow.
Fields of sunflowers and solar panels were cut down
out of fear that they were attracting too much heat.
Still the sun did not set.
Some tried to radio the astronauts,
asking them if they had any instruments
to induce an eclipse.
Some flew magnets to the moon,
tying the attractors to weather balloons and carrier pigeons,
hoping to nudge the satellite—others flocked to the shores,
throwing their bodies against the waves,
attempting to change the tides.
Plumbers constructed chutes and pipes to the sky,
trying to funnel rain from the clouds.
Oil tankers used their drills to tap for clean drinking water.
Still, the sun did not set.
The seas began to boil.
One could light a match by merely holding it outside.
Sun rashes intensified to burns of the third degree.
Hair began to singe.
And just as people’s skin began to melt off their bones,
the sun began to sink.
The world froze.
Once again, the scientists and the experts had no explanations.
Believers believed they had been saved by a miracle.
Alaskans bitterly returned to their ice castles.
I checked the calendar and noticed that August had finally ended,
and knew I would not be vacationing in the South that winter.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
old enough.
I love how motherly and overly-affectionate
the black ladies at the gas station are to me.
It’s not that I necessarily enjoy being coddled,
but it’s endearing—and who doesn’t like
being called “sweet baby” or “honey” by someone
other than their own mother.
Granted, this is coming from someone
who finds cat calls and cheesy pick-up lines
flattering rather than unwanted—
these days, I’ll take all the lovin’ and affection I can get.
Usually, when I go to the gas station to pick up cigarettes,
I am instantly and automatically requested to show
my identification and proof of age before I can even ask
for my staple cigarette brand, Camel Turkish Royals.
“You just look so young,” they explain apologetically, or
“Are you sure you want those cancer sticks, buttercup?”
they ask, in a semi-concerned-for-my-young-little-lungs
but mostly condescending tone.
“I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen,” I reply,
trying to maneuver my inked arms into the cashier’s
line of eyesight—to nonverbally hint that obviously
I’m old enough pay for a well-executed tattoo
by a professional and not some under-the-counter,
under-the-radar, back-alley artist, and thereby
old enough to buy myself a pack of smokes.
“Wait, you’re not fifteen?” they usually reply,
utterly dumbfounded, and carefully scrutinize
my ID once more.
Most people would happily accept this slip,
and welcome being mistaken for half a decade younger
than they actually are with open arms.
Lately, though, this has become a nuisance.
I’m not trying to grow up too quickly—
but it’s difficult to act my age when
Regina and Patti and everyone else
thinks I’m so young, I’m so goddamn young.
I realize that most days, I do look like a child,
with my thin and seemingly fragile frame,
soft voice and untamed, curly mop.
It doesn’t help my cause that I dress unnaturally boyish,
dawning cut-off jean-shorts, size small t-shirts
and bright red slip-on shoes,
or that my beard refuses to fill in completely,
or that I’m overly apologetic,
or that, despite having good posture—
as someone recently noted—
I sometimes intentionally slouch to appear shorter.
But, come on, whatever happened to possessing "boyish charm"?
I also look particularly angelic and clean when
I hang white shirts from my shoulders,
but sometimes I wonder if people mistake this
and associate it with naivety and purity.
I am far from pure—
I curse like a sailor,
smoke like a chimney
and drink like a fish.
I’ve had my share of drug binges
that could match Courtney Love’s,
and although I prefer vanilla milkshakes,
that’s not how I like my sex.
And I’m far from naive—
I understand the workings of the world,
I’m politically aware, I’ve lived through deaths,
I’ve suffered a broken heart on more than one occasion,
I know that sometimes promises are empty,
I know that love doesn’t always end
happily, like in the fairy tales,
I accept that bad things do happen to good people,
that nice guys often finish last
and that things don’t always work out as they should.
When I was younger, people used to tell me
I was precocious, possessing an old soul equipped
with a mind much wiser than my years.
Why suddenly have the tables turned?
At this age, I shouldn’t have to defend
my age, intellect, emotional maturity and experience,
and still, there you are,
belittling me.
Sometimes I wonder
if I will ever be old enough for you.
the black ladies at the gas station are to me.
It’s not that I necessarily enjoy being coddled,
but it’s endearing—and who doesn’t like
being called “sweet baby” or “honey” by someone
other than their own mother.
Granted, this is coming from someone
who finds cat calls and cheesy pick-up lines
flattering rather than unwanted—
these days, I’ll take all the lovin’ and affection I can get.
Usually, when I go to the gas station to pick up cigarettes,
I am instantly and automatically requested to show
my identification and proof of age before I can even ask
for my staple cigarette brand, Camel Turkish Royals.
“You just look so young,” they explain apologetically, or
“Are you sure you want those cancer sticks, buttercup?”
they ask, in a semi-concerned-for-my-young-little-lungs
but mostly condescending tone.
“I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen,” I reply,
trying to maneuver my inked arms into the cashier’s
line of eyesight—to nonverbally hint that obviously
I’m old enough pay for a well-executed tattoo
by a professional and not some under-the-counter,
under-the-radar, back-alley artist, and thereby
old enough to buy myself a pack of smokes.
“Wait, you’re not fifteen?” they usually reply,
utterly dumbfounded, and carefully scrutinize
my ID once more.
Most people would happily accept this slip,
and welcome being mistaken for half a decade younger
than they actually are with open arms.
Lately, though, this has become a nuisance.
I’m not trying to grow up too quickly—
but it’s difficult to act my age when
Regina and Patti and everyone else
thinks I’m so young, I’m so goddamn young.
I realize that most days, I do look like a child,
with my thin and seemingly fragile frame,
soft voice and untamed, curly mop.
It doesn’t help my cause that I dress unnaturally boyish,
dawning cut-off jean-shorts, size small t-shirts
and bright red slip-on shoes,
or that my beard refuses to fill in completely,
or that I’m overly apologetic,
or that, despite having good posture—
as someone recently noted—
I sometimes intentionally slouch to appear shorter.
But, come on, whatever happened to possessing "boyish charm"?
I also look particularly angelic and clean when
I hang white shirts from my shoulders,
but sometimes I wonder if people mistake this
and associate it with naivety and purity.
I am far from pure—
I curse like a sailor,
smoke like a chimney
and drink like a fish.
I’ve had my share of drug binges
that could match Courtney Love’s,
and although I prefer vanilla milkshakes,
that’s not how I like my sex.
And I’m far from naive—
I understand the workings of the world,
I’m politically aware, I’ve lived through deaths,
I’ve suffered a broken heart on more than one occasion,
I know that sometimes promises are empty,
I know that love doesn’t always end
happily, like in the fairy tales,
I accept that bad things do happen to good people,
that nice guys often finish last
and that things don’t always work out as they should.
When I was younger, people used to tell me
I was precocious, possessing an old soul equipped
with a mind much wiser than my years.
Why suddenly have the tables turned?
At this age, I shouldn’t have to defend
my age, intellect, emotional maturity and experience,
and still, there you are,
belittling me.
Sometimes I wonder
if I will ever be old enough for you.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
on neglect.
Lately, I have neglected quite a few things—
I’ve neglected to analyze.
I’ve neglected to deconstruct, understand and reassemble.
I’ve neglected to archive impressions
and reminders of time and place.
My month and my mouth have run away from me again.
I neglected to gush about
the heart-wrenchingly beautiful
sunset drive up to the lake in July.
About the lush fields of corn—
pearled cobs hidden beneath the unpeeled pages of their husks,
crowning thick and sturdy stalks of such great stature—
stretching for miles beyond
the milky, twilit and strawberry-dipped horizon—
seemingly endless and immeasurable like the uncharted oceans,
stirring up buried sentiments described by anxious explorers and cartographers
of the 15th century, when it was still believed the world was flat
and they feared sailing off the side.
About the warped and weathered, wooden sidings of the country houses,
the bones of each home exposed beneath the chipping paint washes
and dappled coats of the sun-bleached stain finishing.
About the dilapidated barns swaying lazily in the breeze
in time with the linens pinned to sagging laundry lines
and the whirling southern cross windmills.
About the farmer’s markets, flaunting their freshest fruits and greens,
and the antique shops filled to the brim
with brittle, pink depression glassware, world war china dolls,
baubles, trinkets and other whimsies
that would tempt even the most seasoned
treasure hunters, collectors and hoarders.
About the brick, bible-belt churches
framing panes of glowing, stained widows.
About the blushing sun slowly dipping in the west the entire drive,
a faithful companion, never truly sinking,
and waxing brilliantly like a luminous watercolor painting,
as if nectarine, peaches, raspberries and plums
were mashed with a mortar and pestle and the juices were used
to smear the sky.
I swear, I’ve never seen as many colors
as I saw in the sky that evening.
I have neglected to document my observations
about the drive home from friend’s houses each night—
about Vanity and Columbus Gold
and the other peep show clubs I pass on Bethal Road
and the strippers with their glass slippers and broken hearts,
about the suburban mothers selling their prescription pain killers
to psychotropic capricorns under the cover of night,
about the flickering street lamps and the blood red moon,
about the traffic lights
and how sometimes love is like staring at the back of one
because I can’t read the signals
and I never know if it’s safe to proceed.
I neglected to write about the death of my dear friend’s mother—
about how bittersweet the death was, because her daughter instantly received
the pain her mother was finally relieved from after so much suffering.
About how the daughter is much too young to lose her mother.
About how bad it felt to grieve.
About how good it felt to cry.
And about the tragically beautiful wisdom passed on
to all who attended the funeral—
that death shouldn’t raise questions of “why,”
but “how” can we move on and continue to live despite it.
I’ve neglected to remind myself
that I always did like doing things the hard way
because of how rewarding it is when I finally do succeed.
And lately, I’ve neglected love.
I’ve put it on the backburner,
and, surprisingly enough,
I don’t mind one bit.
You know something is terribly wrong
when your mother worries about your ability to attract a mate,
but I’ve neglected worrying.
I haven’t been lying awake at night anymore,
wondering if I’ve already met the love of my life
and let him get away,
or reliving nights under the yellow light,
lying beside another, as those who love each other do,
even though he didn’t.
Instead of worrying, I’ve been enjoying every ounce of August—
attending drunken slumber parties in basement bomb shelters,
collecting all the cards and hearts, and shooting the moon.
Harmonizing, writing songs, brewing magic and casting spells.
Rolling up my sleeves, taking a moment to slow down and breathe.
Drawing landscapes on broken guitars with oil pastels by the pond,
taking late afternoon dips in the river,
spending every waking minute with my kindred company
and truly celebrating the season
and everything life has to offer.
I’ve neglected to analyze.
I’ve neglected to deconstruct, understand and reassemble.
I’ve neglected to archive impressions
and reminders of time and place.
My month and my mouth have run away from me again.
I neglected to gush about
the heart-wrenchingly beautiful
sunset drive up to the lake in July.
About the lush fields of corn—
pearled cobs hidden beneath the unpeeled pages of their husks,
crowning thick and sturdy stalks of such great stature—
stretching for miles beyond
the milky, twilit and strawberry-dipped horizon—
seemingly endless and immeasurable like the uncharted oceans,
stirring up buried sentiments described by anxious explorers and cartographers
of the 15th century, when it was still believed the world was flat
and they feared sailing off the side.
About the warped and weathered, wooden sidings of the country houses,
the bones of each home exposed beneath the chipping paint washes
and dappled coats of the sun-bleached stain finishing.
About the dilapidated barns swaying lazily in the breeze
in time with the linens pinned to sagging laundry lines
and the whirling southern cross windmills.
About the farmer’s markets, flaunting their freshest fruits and greens,
and the antique shops filled to the brim
with brittle, pink depression glassware, world war china dolls,
baubles, trinkets and other whimsies
that would tempt even the most seasoned
treasure hunters, collectors and hoarders.
About the brick, bible-belt churches
framing panes of glowing, stained widows.
About the blushing sun slowly dipping in the west the entire drive,
a faithful companion, never truly sinking,
and waxing brilliantly like a luminous watercolor painting,
as if nectarine, peaches, raspberries and plums
were mashed with a mortar and pestle and the juices were used
to smear the sky.
I swear, I’ve never seen as many colors
as I saw in the sky that evening.
I have neglected to document my observations
about the drive home from friend’s houses each night—
about Vanity and Columbus Gold
and the other peep show clubs I pass on Bethal Road
and the strippers with their glass slippers and broken hearts,
about the suburban mothers selling their prescription pain killers
to psychotropic capricorns under the cover of night,
about the flickering street lamps and the blood red moon,
about the traffic lights
and how sometimes love is like staring at the back of one
because I can’t read the signals
and I never know if it’s safe to proceed.
I neglected to write about the death of my dear friend’s mother—
about how bittersweet the death was, because her daughter instantly received
the pain her mother was finally relieved from after so much suffering.
About how the daughter is much too young to lose her mother.
About how bad it felt to grieve.
About how good it felt to cry.
And about the tragically beautiful wisdom passed on
to all who attended the funeral—
that death shouldn’t raise questions of “why,”
but “how” can we move on and continue to live despite it.
I’ve neglected to remind myself
that I always did like doing things the hard way
because of how rewarding it is when I finally do succeed.
And lately, I’ve neglected love.
I’ve put it on the backburner,
and, surprisingly enough,
I don’t mind one bit.
You know something is terribly wrong
when your mother worries about your ability to attract a mate,
but I’ve neglected worrying.
I haven’t been lying awake at night anymore,
wondering if I’ve already met the love of my life
and let him get away,
or reliving nights under the yellow light,
lying beside another, as those who love each other do,
even though he didn’t.
Instead of worrying, I’ve been enjoying every ounce of August—
attending drunken slumber parties in basement bomb shelters,
collecting all the cards and hearts, and shooting the moon.
Harmonizing, writing songs, brewing magic and casting spells.
Rolling up my sleeves, taking a moment to slow down and breathe.
Drawing landscapes on broken guitars with oil pastels by the pond,
taking late afternoon dips in the river,
spending every waking minute with my kindred company
and truly celebrating the season
and everything life has to offer.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
traffic lights.
your love is like staring
at the back of a traffic light,
I can't read your signals
and I don't know
if it's safe to proceed.
at the back of a traffic light,
I can't read your signals
and I don't know
if it's safe to proceed.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
on loving another.
A few months ago, someone told me
that she didn’t want to see me in a relationship
because she feared I would lose myself to the operation,
because I would be so completely consumed
in and with the other, I would forget my foundations,
and that sacrificing my autonomy for the sake of the union
was a romantic yet ridiculous offering
because living on someone else’s terms
and devoting myself entirely to just one other
was selfish. I would be stunted and cheat myself
out of my own growth and learning
and out of relationships with my friends
because I would become obsessed with pleasing solely the other,
and no one else.
I don’t see how wanting to love another is selfish.
It feels too human and inherent and obvious.
And it’s not that I value friendship less than romantic love.
I don’t want to be in a relationship just for the sake
of existing on one side of an ampersand
and having a consistent partner to have sex with.
I want to be in a relationship because I want to learn about love.
I’ve mastered unrequited love.
I’ve dealt with loss.
I’m more than well-versed in the art of mourning
and putting things back together again—
without the aid of the king’s horses and men
after a house falls out of the sky and crushes me.
But I know almost nothing about reciprocated love
on an intimate level.
I know that there is a whole other side to me
that has gone untapped because I have not yet
experienced reciprocated love
on a deeper and intimate level.
This isn’t a matter of feeling inadequate.
I love myself. I really do.
I just know I haven’t reached my full potential.
I want someone to fill the voids in my heart
that I know exist, and that I know I can’t fill by myself.
I want a teacher.
I want someone to prove me wrong.
I want someone to put me in my place
when my judgment is flawed—not in a condescending manner—
just in a way that shows he cares about my personal growth.
I’ve been practicing sainthood,
but I want someone to teach me humility and selflessness.
More than that, I want a companion,
a partner in crime.
I want someone to come home to.
I want someone to share a bed with.
I want someone to call my own,
and someone that can call me his.
that she didn’t want to see me in a relationship
because she feared I would lose myself to the operation,
because I would be so completely consumed
in and with the other, I would forget my foundations,
and that sacrificing my autonomy for the sake of the union
was a romantic yet ridiculous offering
because living on someone else’s terms
and devoting myself entirely to just one other
was selfish. I would be stunted and cheat myself
out of my own growth and learning
and out of relationships with my friends
because I would become obsessed with pleasing solely the other,
and no one else.
I don’t see how wanting to love another is selfish.
It feels too human and inherent and obvious.
And it’s not that I value friendship less than romantic love.
I don’t want to be in a relationship just for the sake
of existing on one side of an ampersand
and having a consistent partner to have sex with.
I want to be in a relationship because I want to learn about love.
I’ve mastered unrequited love.
I’ve dealt with loss.
I’m more than well-versed in the art of mourning
and putting things back together again—
without the aid of the king’s horses and men
after a house falls out of the sky and crushes me.
But I know almost nothing about reciprocated love
on an intimate level.
I know that there is a whole other side to me
that has gone untapped because I have not yet
experienced reciprocated love
on a deeper and intimate level.
This isn’t a matter of feeling inadequate.
I love myself. I really do.
I just know I haven’t reached my full potential.
I want someone to fill the voids in my heart
that I know exist, and that I know I can’t fill by myself.
I want a teacher.
I want someone to prove me wrong.
I want someone to put me in my place
when my judgment is flawed—not in a condescending manner—
just in a way that shows he cares about my personal growth.
I’ve been practicing sainthood,
but I want someone to teach me humility and selflessness.
More than that, I want a companion,
a partner in crime.
I want someone to come home to.
I want someone to share a bed with.
I want someone to call my own,
and someone that can call me his.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
an unexpected change of events.
and suddenly,
all the street lamps
have been turning on
as I pass beneath them,
instead of flickering off.
I pray that my luck has changed.
all the street lamps
have been turning on
as I pass beneath them,
instead of flickering off.
I pray that my luck has changed.
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