and love

love the days the waves the short escapes into small apartment caves. Love the multicolored socks and multicolored skin, the changes in between, within. Love the short small steps he takes, the skipping, prancing, jumps, the chocking during jazzy songs, the lumps. And love and love and love, the books, the surprises into short stories, reprises, the original versions of songs in the shower. The customers with jokes that they seem to have practiced all day just to tell you. The overcast, the sunny, the rain. The whisps of mist in between the trees on weathered trails. Love the 3hr long phone conversations, the 30 min walks, the 22 second burts of chatter. The sleeping, the awakening, the curls, the yawns, the pleasant smiles. The hammock, the swinging, the holding of moments. The honest to goodness truth, the vacuums when the store closes, the father and his quirky daughter. The free, the costly, the worth it. The tele in the breakroom, the song that appears on shuffle. The being too poor for an apple, the being rich but only in savings. The unfinished work piece, the piano, the practice, the finish, the forgotten notes. The trying, the failing, the trying a second time and rocking it. The being asked questions, the what could be flirting and may possibly not be. The memorization of facts and repetitioned and conditionned. The cleanliness of one side, but dirty on the other. The thank yous and I'm sorries, and feeling the same way about both of them. The rants and laughs. The dreaming and retelling and recalling it all later. The bread with raisins, pizza with pineapple, chips with salsa, water with vitamins. The only knowing Scorpio, lyra, and polaris. The baggy pants that used to belong to my grandpa and fit me. The hum of a box fan. The light of the bathroom, the soft murmur of neighbors, the scent of baby lotion. That just brushed clean feeling, that just ate something deliciously awesome feeling, that I'm poor but happier than ever feeling. Knowing your parents are healthy, that your roommates are sleeping, that you're healthy and about to be sleeping. The not needing anything. The room being cold and the outside being hot but also being warm under the covers. The kitchen being clean, the carpet being soft, the couch being splendid for writing a blog. The being interrupted by a phone call that changes everything. The being friends again, the knowing that this is where things really do get better and everyone was right to say so. The being simply happier. The love and love and love for all of this and mostly loving how much you love.

My Reaction to Christian's Post:

Oh hello.
So this is the game we're playing, yes? If it is then fantastic because I've been playing it for ages and I know exactly how it goes and how it stretches out.
Words are words are words. I don't mean to trounce your literary integrity but I say you have some ballsy audacity to articulate yourself over the internet. Also, thank you very much for reinforcing the fact that we're over. Oh really? I wasn't aware. But thank you very much to communicating that I am in fact in the past, that you don't look back at me, that we're done, etc, etc, etc. I needed that. Really I did. Thank you because I was still hoping that next week we could catch a movie, make out in the theater, go to Pascucci. I was still under the impression that your next love letter was about to arrive in 2 days and that I'd hear you play Norwegian Wood over Skype tonight. But thank you for letting me know! Now I'll make other plans. You must come to terms with the fact that you chose my best friend, that my best friend is not interested in you, that she's going to move in with me within a week, that we've been friends for almost 6 years, that she will always choose to respect my feelings over choosing to respect yours, and that if given the choice to hurt me or hurt you, she'd hurt you a thousand times over. Oh, and also! She's not interested in you. Oh hey, also just letting you know. She's not interested in you. If you weren't aware of that. If you think she's being a tease then just grow up. She's even a tease towards me and I haven't had any whack at the goods. Are you ready to try for the next 6 years? But honestly, the reason this may sound harsh is because all in all you hurt my feelings by writing what you wrote. You should never hurt a writer's feelings with words. That's practically shooting at someone who has a machine gun with a handgun. Eh, I'm not very good at gun references but anyway! I care about you, but you're starting to make me feel really bad. Be careful with your actions because they always have consequences. You've already broken my heart in one way, now don't go off and break it as my friend.

Jerk.

Freewrite - Untimed

Blind since five, unecessarily wise since 9 and the downturns began then- under falling autumn leaves stuck between the lines of wide ruled paper. Scribbled and massacred with clicks and ticks of what could have been literature but was not. I made the mistake of taking a path that diverges into the same path over and over again- I made the bigger mistake of attempting to convince myself that I was getting somewhere and that the stones and trees were different every time I passed them and of course they weren't. They were the same. She rounded up the stray ropes and placed them against one another, pencils in the grass writing meadows in the distance. Rope. Entangled with itself to made a larger entanglement. Heavy and hot in the palms of both hands. Derailing a train takes a quarter but that's only rumor, he says, they've done it before plenty of times. If you close your eyes you can't tell the difference between pennies and dimes, they're as smooth as lies crawling in between your pointer and index fingers. I look down. Watching the ground pass underneath me as I stand still with my legs walking and I head nowhere but it seems as though the world is passing, slowly, advancing towards something behind me. I play an invisible violin with my wrists at the dinner table, unable to talk and look up out of bashfulness, blushing at his saying that I look cute tonight. I'm nervous, I can tell because my hair cannot stay behind my ear, or so that's at least what my gestures suggest. The tables around us are celebrating anniversaries and we're only celebrating the beauty of just being with one another currently. I know better than to promise myself more than what I'm aware of knowing. I know I don't know anything- metacognition in 178 degrees, the other 2 is only faith. 180 is what I gave up a few weeks ago when I stoppped giving a damn about what I did and didn't know and how to fix it towards one end of the spectrum to the other. I like to think I'm sleeping on Tim Burton backdrops, a curling darkness, curtling grayness, writhing blankness in the foreground of chances and the rest is up to what I end up dreaming. Protagonists of tragedies and possibly lost extremities. Today was empty and I'm tired.