C'etait Salement Romantique

[[Insert warm fuzzy picture of a memory here]]

It was a Friday. We'd hung out for eight days straight without realizing it. We had pizza for what was her lunch and my breakfast. I wore my glasses that day.

After, we sprawled out on the grass and chatted.

"So, there's something about you," she'd said to me that afternoon.

I quite enjoyed her company, I realized. I liked the way we were able to talk. I liked how we found ourselves saying things we usually wouldn't. I'm not even talking about stuff we've put in boxes or any of that. Just, little things.

"What's this place sound like?"

"What's it like, having both parents together?"

"Can I share your scooter then?"

"We can pick the family car with the kids."

"Jafacakes?"

"Jafacakes."

"Where would you like to live?"

Pause. Freeze. Breath. Thought. Breathe. Breath. Thought. Breathe, Breathe.

"Anywhere you'd like to be."

And, afraid as I was of my own words and what they meant,

I also knew

that they were real.

--An extract from Inside My Head.

Christmas coffee to my left, I sat down with myself,

and wrote.

I wrote about you and early bits and pieces that I still think about and smile at.

I wrote about you.

And then, I make (or I find that I have made) a bit more sense of things because I decided that such uncertainty made up a part of all that this is and will be. Of all that I am, and will be.

I am settled, as opposed to battling the demons that have their claws jammed right into my insecurities.

I can breathe. And you know, I'd seated myself on the borders of my decisions, and settled comfortably. Comfortably. I will toy with the idea of these decisions, I think to myself. And I also think to myself,

that I will charge my dead cell phone when I am home and text because

I realized I've missed you.

And it's the first day of a whole stream of chaos that you're not in but that still involves you, and I hope you're not going out of your mind. And I hope you're not having to do weight-lifting or things that will exacerbate your left wrist. And I hope you're okay, and that you're doing okay.

And, that I love you.

But then I got home. And while my cell phone was charging,

I found myself reading.

And no, admittedly I'm not in the best place right now to think about prettying up my words.

So.

I'm sorry that I feel the way I do. That I can't put a lid on it. That I would like to talk, but can never find the words to when it's live. I try, I do. But my words, they never come out right when it comes to this. My vowels and syllables melt and meld together and suddenly it's too solid and too heavy to roll off my tongue. I'd write you, but then, I figure I'd either never send it or I'd censor half of it.

I'm sorry that I feel the way I do. That I don't mean to. That I wish I wasn't such a baby about so many things.

That I don't quite know what to do with myself anymore.

I've always said that people cannot possibly say things with complete disregard for the directions that it may or may not go, and for the answers or words to continue from that first statement. But well, this is me.

I wrote once, a long long time back,

that I will leave, I would have to leave eventually. I'd hop onto a plane and there'll be someone who's been waiting up for you with tea that's gone cold.

Back then, I figured that was how it was supposed to play out. Except, things happened quite a bit differently. And don't get me wrong, I haven't minded it one bit.

So here's the thing-

I won't make promises I cannot keep. My best plans are to just not. And I am impossibly in love with you. I haven't even decided if that's a good or bad thing for you yet.

But,

she's still waiting up for you with that tea. It's long gone cold now, the tea, and babe, she's still there waiting. And she will be, for quite a while I believe.

And she says that she'd like to come home to you.

Except really, all she'd like,

is for you to come home to her.

and no, I don't have any idea what any of this means. Or what to feel. Or what to do. Or what to do with how I feel. It's not that I'm not dealing, it's that I don't know how. I don't even know what to do with myself, to be honest. Because I write, or I've written, and then I address myself and my issues, and then I come back and I find myself in square one.

Here's the thing though,

I would really, really just like for things to fall into place for you.

Thursday, December 2nd 2010

1:10am