Sunday, August 26, 2012

on falling in love, on not knowing what love is, on something that is maybe not love at all

Loving people you've never met is like anticipating the next four years without thinking about the next four seconds, which, in all honesty, I do all the time. Loving someone you've never met makes no sense. Do you know how it feels to love someone about whom you know nothing? To fall in love with a stranger, a stranger, except you do know the minutest facts about them, the facts that they choose to share, the feelings they are feeling on a regular basis, their thought processes. But with the deletion of the blog comes the deletion of the human. No longer privy to thoughts that were once readily shared with the internet, thoughts that could never be presented in person, thoughts that are so beautiful and bare and stripped of pretension, stripped of insecurity. There is purity in reading about the sadness, the loneliness, the mundane. Our human parts are made up not of the extraordinary, but the daily experiences, the quiet moments when we don't realize what we are thinking, when the mind is running without meta-analysis, the mind running faster than it cares to keep up with itself, but still so slowly, still in monotony, still only interesting to those who truly love you, those who truly care, or those who care to be voyeurs; though, aren't we all voyeurs? Aren't we all interested in the thoughts of those who are not ourselves? Don't you want to know what someone who is not you is thinking in a situation in which you have also been? Don't you want to know what someone who is not you is thinking in a situation in which you have never been? The human mind and all its complexity, laid bare for the reading, bare for the taking, bare for the breathing. This is how I came to know you. This is how I came to love you. This is how I do not know you anymore.

the long and winding road

The hills beneath the Griffith Observatory during Venus in transit. You can't tell here, but cars were parked way deep down, covering the hillsides, resulting in a walk that wove through trees and traffic lasting about fifteen minutes or so, and lordie is was so beautiful all over the place. This day also included a long car ride and the most delicious Indian food and reading about galaxies over shoulders and grazing fingers and gathering grass mountains on small folded legs while gazing at shy eyelashes and overlooks onto the bright city lights kissing the dark night sky.

I still don't know how to feel about this summer.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

gripes and melancholy in a hot summer haze

There are moments I would like to squeeze into a glass bottle and pour down my throat, deep into myself, on a night like tonight. There are moments when light, rays of late-afternoon sunshine through branches of trees, touched my body, when the wind gathered my hair up off my face, when the leaves on the ground underfoot crunched as I trampled them, moments when I walked on thick, unsturdy planks of wood over water, tip-toeing, pretending I was a speck of dust falling softly on bookcases filled to the brim and overflowing with stories to be drifted in and out of.
This body, this skin, had been present in a million different places, a million different situations. I carry moments upon my skin that I do not remember, that I may never remember again. And then there are moments that my body has known that I will never, ever forget. What I remember most is what was exchanged between us, the pieces of you and the pieces of me; your anger, the way I could see you swiftly closing your computer and stomping away from my sight, furious, in a fit of rage, fists clenched. I remember, I feel, the sadness, the melancholy, the remorse. I remember the feeling of autumn, the indescribable cold that settles in only to be met with the knowledge of a long winter ahead, the knowledge that the bitter breezes, the cloudy greyness, it is all for the best, that feeling that seeped through your every word. The way I can still feel you when I listen to this song and this one and that, it scares me to my very core.
When I picture you, I picture you walking, always walking, nose rosy, buttoned up and pulling tight a flimsy coat collar up around your face, guarded from the elements only because of the layers of sweaters beneath it. I wish you would walk here, to where I am, because although there has been longing elsewhere, although there have been moments with others and will continue to be moments with others, I somehow find myself in the same state, 1:22am, longing for the moments when my skin was something you longed to touch, dreaming of the moment when you actually will - a moment that honestly may never exist. But there is still so much I have not told you.
There is nobody I hold closer. There is nobody who is farther away.