Far too many people let the light leave their eyes long before they die. Their soul shrivels up and rattles around behind their empty faces making half expressions, ghosts of the things they used to feel.
Sometimes I like to let my body go still and allow myself feel the boundary of my skin. From my core to the furthest edge of my fingertips I occupy a body, connected mind and flesh by millions of electrical impulses firing away. Amongst those impulses exists every moment of my life. Every word I have ever read or written, every dream that ever flooded my sleepy mind, every lyric and the music to every song that has ever graced my ears is contained somewhere in the intricate web that is my brain.
When I think about this, it puts so much into perspective. Being a thinking, breathing thing with the gift and curse of the human condition is as beautiful as it is tragic. We are a compliation of experiences, electrified– walking, talking, seeing, remebering the good things and learning from the bad everyday. We get to call that life. When I remeber how incredible that is, I can shrink the self induced stresses that make life more difficult than it needs to be; I can focus on not just being happy, but being awe inspired.
Some people never learn. They never let themselves move on from what hurt them. I don’t think it’s masochism–no; I don’t think it’s so simple as that.
The girl doesn’t know how to love herself.
She clings to the delusions of the past, things that hurt, not because she wants them. She knows it could never be the same as the thought they once were, but she refuses to let go. She returns for pain because she thinks she deserves it. She does things, and says things, to hurt what she once held dear in her heart because she thinks she deserves the pain she gives. But it’s not her fault. I wish I could tell her it’s just not her fault. There’s nothing I could say though. It’s a boundary I can’t cross because of who I am to her; in her eyes I am a wrecker–a shatterer of beautiful delusions and the catalyst of her downfall. Only anonymity could hide that, but faceless influence only goes so far.
I see myself in her struggle often times. The anger, the hopelessness, the half-hearted love interests I knew would crash to the ground. The difference is that I learned what it meant not just to feel alone, but to truly be alone–what it meant to be self-reliant for food, money, transportation, entertainment, even company. It was in the abyss that I was able to understand that some things must be. That they hurt, but they shaped me into something better than before. That things which ended were meant to end, and that it’s okay. It’s all okay. I was hungry, but that was okay–I could drink tea and my belly would feel warm and full. I was lonely, but that was okay–I could read stories and quench my thirst for conversations with ones that had been written by a masterful mind. I did not have somebody to love, but that was okay–I learned to love myself, and I knew someone to love would follow. And it did.
I just had to let go of the past and the pain, and embrace myself and my surroundings.
But I can’t tell her that because she hates me. God does she hate me.
Tomorrow marks the six month anniversary of the day you and I walked to the cliffs of Fort Funston. We missed the sunset by a couple of minutes, but light escaping over the horizon still touched the dark Northern California ocean in the most beautiful way. That’s still my favorite spot in all of San Francisco.
When it was too dark to see, we walked home along the street that curls around the edge of Lake Merced, our path only briefly illuminated by passing headlights.
I remember holding your hand in the frigid San Francisco spring air, listening to your nervous voice with my own nervous ears–waiting for you to ask what I’d been hoping ever since you bought that plane ticket.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
March 1st, 2013 is the day you made everything different.
I love you.