It is funny isn’t it? I always believed in fairy tales and loved the story and the idea of being loved. But I didn’t think any Noah Calhoun’s or Prince Eric’s were walking around in reality with the rest of us. I only ever heard about the Gastaun’s who treated young princess’s like dirt and had huge egos. When a beauty would cry over such guys, guys who hurt her, I’d be the cheerleader listening and patting backs and hugs and holding tissues, all the while saying how she was too good for this, how the guy was stupid to treat her that way and didn’t deserve her, to walk away. I explained how there would be a guy who treated her right. To be honest though, I wasn’t a big believer in good guys. I mean I had hope I suppose but I didn’t ever experience that perfect guy. I didn’t think that a guy would exist and even if he did he Surely wasn’t going to want me. But fate and coincidence somehow worked together and presented to me the most unlikely guy, who happened to be the perfect guy for me. From flowers to coffee to kissing to laughing and teasing, every moment has been a dream. I am now a confident believer in love.
I used to say the unconvincing phrase “I’m not scared of anything,” with a casual pft, just to add a bit of humor. But I lied, obviously. Humans, and every living creature, has a fear. This fear can consume them or they can move on.
I’m terrified I’ll never amount to anything.
This is a very common fear among high schoolers desiring to go to college, yet looking at the employment rates even for BA’s. Here’s the thing: I’m not worried I won’t get a job. I’m an efficient typer, I work very hard, it’s not too difficult to get a degree if you try hard, and I am determined. So, no. I’m not afraid I won’t get a job. I’m paralyzed by the thought of getting a job and never doing anything else. I’m worried I’ll get a job and do that for the rest of my life, always putting off living until a marriage and kids come along, ruining my chance of living my life for me. Not to say those are bad things, but what if I never get that chance to bungee jump? Or parasail? Or parachute, or go on crazy adventures? And what about my writing? I’d love to write something that speaks to people. That influences. That comes off the page and wraps around them and causes them to chase the words until they are true. I’d love to walk into a bookstore and walk right up to the counter and ask where my books are, and I’d love to go sit and read my own book in a bookstore, no matter how narcissistic that is.
The thing I’m terrified of is becoming like our parents. Becoming someone who just goes to work. Hold up, correction, is their work. I would never, ever, ever want to neglect a child and become so consumed with jobs and tasks that the people they involve get lost in the shuffle and Control comes to be the top card in the deck. I’m afraid of being a person who no longer lives for others, but only for themselves. I’m terrified of being a woman who is so consumed with her career and her own self interest that she loses that love of other people, people who are hurting and in need, or maybe don’t want help but still it. I’m afraid of slipping into a routine, of not living, of simply existing.
I get so scared of this. I don’t want to be normal, I don’t want to be regular. Not because I want to be a hipster (although that’d be nice), but because that’s so against everything I am. I want to avoid the inevitable, I want to keep my ideals, I want to be free and alive instead of tied down and terrified of breaking social norms.
Love is meant to last,
But alas, it is very fragile like glass,
It may break into little pieces that even when glued,
Taped together preciously or delicately sewed,
Will never again turnout to be as good as new.
I used to believe in 11:11 wishes,
Used to dream of midnight kisses,
I believed in these things and much more,
But all that was in a time long, long, before,
Before the boy ripped at my chest,
Smiling, thinking he knew what was best,
Tearing me limb from limb, reaching for my core,
My insides are completely red, raw, and sore,
Mutilated, none of these fairy tale dreams remain,
My once white canvass has a permanent stain,
a stain made in a fit of red passion all too fast,
I guess intimacy and love were never meant to last,
All my birthday wishes never did come true,
Every day no longer bright, but gray & blue,
Waking up in this big bed all alone,
Searching for a nonexistent note by the hotel phone.
The young, beautiful boy disguised as a sheep,
Snuck out quietly as a wolf, leaving me stuck in sleep.