Friday, December 21, 2007

For Friends Who Tell Me Stories About Love

Written entirely along City Walk, Eastwood:

They're closing their lights on me here with the thousand Santas and a strange woman singing in my ears. I feel a sadness so familiarly sweet I have to remind myself to breathe.


Hi, self.

{It's been...months. We're still okay, I guess, it's really weird writing here but this is something I can get used to, happily, smiling alone, listening to music: unlike the world I do not understand words, just sounds, and here I hear the sound of one woman rapping melodically saying something about the consequence of sounds but that's all I can absorb--there are other things, self, that I do not understand.}

People are taking pictures.

Of what use is deliverance, if it means freedom from feeling this: the danger, the wanting, the gut-gnawing desire, traipsing over tracks, forcing the jiggle out of a thousand-year-old bridge that's been both standing there for eternities and waiting for that which will send it and everything on it {hell-ward} plunging to their deaths.

I am woman, sometimes. I am full and half-full; I want you because I can't have you; I want you for those nights when it feels like the world has been waiting for us to make up our minds and start kissing.

What use are our safe harbors, if beneath them there is no this: this crazy-ass doublespeak, this absolutely complicated sick-ass kick-ass let's see how far this pain can go; if people ever die of heartache then so be it. I may be sick just thinking this but what the fuck I'm in love with you and everything about you.

What use are boxes and NOs and NOT ALLOWEDs and NOT FUCKING SANEs when there is this: that electric kind of heartbeat that startles, that freezes, that kills in tiny seconds but not enough, never enough.

I know I create my world around me, and this is precisely why you are here: I know many who are just like me. Give me something to say no to, tell me something I shouldn't do and I swear to God I will do it, love it, take it, demand it from the world -- it is my nature and for this I must suffer.

I hate that this (the oneness, the sameness, the things that tell us we must have been carved from the same stones) means nothing to you because of what you are (I am not hideous, you say, but neither am I the love of your life).

And this is the sadness that defines who I am. Doomed, perhaps, but happy for the slivers of sunlight let loose by admissions that it can happen, maybe, some time in the far future, in another lifetime.
Mood: sad

8 comments:

jerz said...

sometimes...freefalling helps...

zhoosteen said...

'in another lifetime' makes me breakdown.

tintination said...

i can tell you one thing that you can say no to but i bet you you won't do it, you won't take it, you won't love him. because you are wired that way. you are not doomed. one way to look at it: the one that will make you do crazy things, take absurd chances, and love fiercely hasn't arrived yet.

'bea' from the past said...

can someone write something like this for me?... please

Anonymous said...

thank you for writing that down.

Macky Cruz said...

tin, i hope to God that's all there is about me.

bea from the past - if you tell me your story maybe i can.

jerz -- last time i tried that it got sticky but then again, this post isn't about me (wink)

zhoosteen -- haaaaay

mhwb said...

entirely fiction--OWS. pero pwede, 'cause this feels so much abt me. i'm sure the others felt the same, thus the deluge of comments.

Macky Cruz said...

empathy is a gift hehe