O Genius, who comes on to me late at night, in the middle of the afternoon, in the shower, please grant me with some glimpse of mystery or knowledge to share. I wish to share not for my own value or glory, but to bless the world with some piece of what lies beyond. While I attempt and try my hardest, I know it is not easy or simple to dance and twirl, to paint and type, to stroke lines across a page and to write words as quick as they come to your mind. So again, I ask for guidance and a supression of narcism from you, O Genie.
It is common knowledge that Princesses are associated with towers,
Waiting, sighing, crying, whining, pining away for men with flowers,
And shining knights to come and fight the awful dragons of their past,
To come and convince them that something called Love will last.
It is common knowledge that the damsel in distress is waiting for a hero,
That she needs the man to come and save her to not feel like a zero,
And when he comes sweeping in with big, beefy arms and a bright red cape,
He’ll wrap his arms around her, not saying a word, kissing her to seal their fate.
It’s common knowledge that young ladies always are pining for a gentlemen,
The unlucky ladies do not know the rarity of such a specimen,
And therefore remain whining and crying and pining away in that lonely tower,
Needing to fight their own dragons, conquer their own fears, and forget about flowers.
For flowers are weak, fleeting, with petals that break away,
And courage is a beauty that is kept inside, forever to stay.
This predictable feeling of old,
The one of countless tales told,
Has become an object of the norm,
That word surrounded with storm,
I had predicted to feel detached from me,
But instead I’ve fully embraced the sea,
The oldest feeling, one from above,
The one expressed with one word: Love
Once, on a quiet night, I made a mistake. The funniest thing about mistakes seems to be that they aren’t mistakes at the time. Ever heard that saying? The one about not regretting anything because it’s exactly what you wanted at the time? What if what you wanted hurt everyone else, though? What if that one mistake, on a silent night in the dark, caused a thousand chain reactions that created problems one incident never could have predicted? He said you’re too old to be shy, so I stayed the night. I didn’t think this would happen. It was just one night! It was a simple mistake, please someone have mercy on me. We attempted to fill spaces in your sheets, and I tried not to cry as I realized I had just dug a hole that I couldn’t easily slip out of. It was a quite, still night, and no false whispers of love were exchanged, for we both knew I’d never be your lover. I was only there to provide a momentary fill for the impossibly deep chasm in your soul; I only provided the heat on a cold, silent night. The slow breath of regret filled us, and I knew I was hurting my boyfriend, I was hurting me, I was hurting, hurting, hurting. The pain created a shocking effect I didn’t expect. Wide eyed, I laid impossibly still next to you, feeling distant. Not there in the bed, not in that moment, but far, far away, already suffering the consequences of that still night. The physical pain was never as bad as the emotional turmoil I felt the morning after. You were the one I hated the most, yet I found myself laying down next to you. I heard once that the place that causes you to hate someone in your brain is directly next to the place that causes you to love. Maybe this is why I learned from you, the one I hated the most.
Once, on a quite, silent night, I layed down my life for yours, and rose again, wishing to be dead instead than live with the shame of our silent night.
Wings clipped, hope busted, dreams shattered,
My cage is worn and my clothes are tattered,
I’ve reached the end of my rope, I’ve lost,
This used to be bubbly and warm, now I’m frost,
I can’t figure out when I lost the ability to fly,
It only makes me more ready for the day I say bye,
I know I should be sad, I know that should be true,
But no matter my colors, no matter how blue,
I can’t seem to find one thing I’ll miss about being used by you.
How completely idiotic of me,
To be kissed for the first time in a tree,
The story goes perfectly along,
With the children’s nursery song,
Blah and Blah, sitting in a tree,
K-I-SS-I-N-G, ect, ect.
The funny thing is how thoughtless I was,
I did at one point say Why? but all he said was because,
I don’t really know what i was doing or why then,
We weren’t dating, and I definitely wouldn’t call him a friend,
I guess it is not the first kiss that matters, alas,
But the one you share on the day which will be your last
The kiss was tainted with problems and tears,
And shortly after with the sharp acid taste of beer,
I can’t quite put my finger on the moment i knew,
Let’s put it this way; if I’m cinderella, that’s not the right shoe.
There once was a girl who was asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She answered skinny and beautiful. The teacher laughed, and said “No, no, as a career.” The student looked confused and said “What can you do as a skinny and beautiful lady?” The teacher told the young idealist to become a model. The girl was overjoyed. She ran home and told mommy and daddy all about her new dream to be a model. They smiled, telling her that was a “cute” idea and that she was such a “darling dear” for having thought of it.
Years later, she was told by her fellow classmates a harsh reality. You’re fat, they said, you can’t be a model, they said. So she cried and told mommy, and mommy said she would have to lose weight to be a model. So the little girl got on the scale, and weighed herself. She had a goal to lose just 20 pounds. Only 20, right, she thought. I can do this, she thought. So she started eating healthy. Yumm, veggies and fruits and nuts, no meat. Week after week, day after day, hour after hour, she weighed herself. She dropped 10 pounds fast. The feeling of weightlessness was euphoric. How can one describe the feeling of worth one gains when one loses? It’s a nonsense, yet it’s real and there. Soon she was only eating veggies and fruits, yet weeks went by with no results, and she had to lose that extra 7 pounds she had left. So she cut out everything. Who needs food, she questioned. She knew it was bad for you.. But she would just do this for a little while, she told herself. Besides, she could do what she wanted, no one was going to tell her what to do.
Whew, no one ever told her how much time she spent thinking about that scale. The pretty scale with the magic number or the treacherous thing with the forbidden pounds back on. Her studies slipped out of focus as food came to dominate her mind. The feeling of worthlessness the mirror revealed was unbearable. But she finally was within two pounds of her goal, and her mom told her for the first time in four years that she looked beautiful and her dad taught her to count her calories, the only thing he’s ever taught her. Her mother even said she’d call the model agency for her if she lost that two pounds. Smiling and hugging her mom, she jumped up and down. Woah, she thought. My head kinda hurts. Food, food, food, I need food. No, no, no, she answered. I’m within pounds of my dreams.
The next day, she traced the word ‘two’ and the number 2 all over her binders, surrounded with apples and other foods instead of hearts. Walking to each class was becoming painful, and her stomach was crying for food. The nurse saw her struggle standing up and pulled her into her office. When was the last time you ate, sweetie? Standoffish, and guilty too, the girl put her head down and said I don’t know. The nurse knowingly put her head on the desk across from the girl, stared in her eyes, gently patted her arm and whispered “When was the last time you weighed yourself, dear?” The nurses kindness broke the confused doe down and she began to sob and choke out her story in between gasps and the nurse came around and let the girl cry. This poor girl, thought the nurse. But who is to blame? The girl or the home she grew up in, with the parents in charge of it, living in a neighborhood with impossible ideals, which is encompassed in a society surrounded around self-image. Who is to blame?
With arms extended, palms facing out, and my smiling face aimed straight ahead, I dream I’ll actually do it this time. The rooftop is my takeoff ramp and someplace unknown is my landing strip. This Place, this mysterious utopia of my dreams, has become my reality; has become my escape. There is no place like it, I’m sure. The ocean there is an unreal blue, the color of turquoise and green mixed. Some may be thinking how typical, but I can only say patience, patience. My paradise has all four seasons, and it snows and rains and is chilly with leaves that fall out of love gracefully, floating away from the trees they once called their own. The spring contains wonderful cherry blossom trees and the summer is full of sun that never gives you sunburn. The people in my utopia are understanding and intelligent, yet happy–a endangered species that is unprotected elsewhere. The pragmatists and romantics all get along, for the reality of this Place is beautifully romantic. The library there holds all the books you’ve ever read, and the librarian never says “shh,” only “Speak up.” No one is ever offended, just brutally honest. Everyone desires knowledge, more and more knowledge. No TV exists in my land, and no bombs or threats either, for who would want to harm a land as lovely as this? I am completely assured that you have fallen in love with this place already, yet I have saved the best part for last. The town has a broken down church on the corner. The reason it is broken down is because all the people in the church give their money to the poor and widows and orphans, so they don’t have any money left for buildings. But even though the church’s roof is slanted and the pews are old, the people still go every single day, not to praise the building but to praise the Builder.
Back to my current situation. I stand on my roof, with hands extended and my face lifted high, ready to fly away to my paradise. After a few more priceless seconds of bliss, my body slumps down on the roof, and I watch instead my town. The hypocritical christians and the poor orphans playing all alone while the rich kid runs across the street to avoid him. The meaningless chatter floats to my ears as I realize what these people never will: They have set up a society in which both everything and nothing matters. As Mark Twain proved in the greatest American novel, one cannot just escaped the society one was born into. So my dreams and plans and ideals will eventually all fade away, and I’ll make excuses about why I never did fly off this roof and land somewhere new. So, here’s to growing up, getting old, and losing oneself.
I greatly admire birds, as my posts suggest. I often visualize myself as a bird chained to a specific spot, unable to spread her beautiful wings and leave as gracefully as she came. The thing with birds my romantic view refuses to think about is the fact that while they are free to come and go, they hardly ever stay. The constant shift in coming and going means no connections, no personal ties forever. While in a way this sounds appealing, it only sounds appealing in the idealist sense. I have made ties and to break away and leave would mean to completely abandon it all and migrate away to someplace new, with it’s own chains and cages ready to trap me again. Is that really what I want? In some relationships, yes. I cannot wait to leave in some instances. Yet the pragmatist in me can’t help but realize that leaving is not as freeing as it seems to be. One cannot just leave because they believe someplace else will be better, prettier, bolder, and bigger. While I still imagine my wings coming out and my confidence shining as I go to make something of myself, I will not sit by and use the future as an escape from the present. When I stop staring at clouds and daydreaming of places and things and people I’ve never met or seen, I find my home in people here and now. I find my joy in the smallest places and things and people. So yes, I am bird ready to fly away, but for now I guess I’ll be content to stay.
On the very brink of reality,
Hanging on the edge of safety,
Tweet, tweet, tweeting up, up high,
The in and out breaths, the deep sigh,
To jump or hop back to the nest?
To fly and be free, or to be safe, called the best?
Either way I take a risk as a small little bird, a baby,
I never asked you to be my superman, to try and save me,
Yet here you are, coming to my rescue, holding tightly,
I used to shy away and run from this, seemingly brightly,
But somehow I’ve changed and become okay with being saved,
I’m tired of running in this infinity circle; sick of being chased.
I was under the impression if you were committed, you had lost,
I suppose my mind’s been changed, or maybe I’ve gone soft.
I used to believe a lot of things, yet they seem not to apply,
You’ve both freed this bird and made her say hello instead of bye,
I no longer feel like a loser for being committed, it just can’t be true.
I guess the truth is I’m only okay with ‘losing’ if losing means winning you.