It is what you wanted to do and it can still be what you want to do.

Gathering the ancient Christmas decorations from their crushed boxes, giving them all their yearly dusting, freeing something else too.

Some people are parts of you. Some people struggle to be until they stop struggling and try somewhere else.

She is beautiful. She is strong. She is confident. She is smart.

It is only finished when there is no room for anything else; the universe is expanding.

It is over now, I wrote our story down, and wept when it was necessary for me, and the tissues gathered up the love I still had. It is all for everyone else now, and they accept it, and they love. Everything is new and you are rotting somewhere old.

We will be happy again, and still, and people watching will think we carry laughing gas in our pockets but it is only in our hearts.

The snow is falling in a way it never has and never will again. Watch.

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He is some creature in a cloud. What is real attachment? How does it all end, so easily? Little bits of spider web stretching, breaking. They are only the repeating song in your head – does that exist?

He marks his skin with dates. He will die, become flattened, back-packaged meat on a metal bed. Little green clovers wrinkled and lacking sweat.

Sweet boy, we will all grow up. It is some terrifying thing, marking time with someone else, on a field of our lives. Is this why people watch sports? Easy rules and bad calls really are no matter. Pay the big boys big bucks to keep us looking away and thinking about yellow flags.

She thinks she is as smart as me. I laughed at her. Perhaps it is only clarity; I don’t watch football.

 

 

The road is carved through great, dark, blue-gray mountains lined with white. The boy who drives the car is you, but he is not you. He is younger and looks like someone you have never looked like. He is driving and he loves me again. I don’t know where we are going. All I see are the mountains and the face that is yours but doesn’t belong to you. I don’t wonder, I just ride.

Your brain, left unguarded by sleep, free from ego, not bound by physics, time, history, or the beliefs of others or yourself, can give life to the only magic we are capable of.

My magic was peace, resolution, love, acceptance, forgiveness, the beauty of nature.

That boy never existed and you never will again. You are some magical thought that has passed.

He lives in a world where he does not wake up. He has been dreaming for a decade.  At least I know where my blue mountains are and how to find them when I wake.

My memories of you are living with dreams now, in some beautiful work of art I am glad to experience while resting. Let it be some soft beauty instead of harsh ugliness.

You make me want to paint great, dark, blue-gray mountains lined with white.

 

Why do I always need to heal? Why do I keep being broken? Is it my fault, or is everyone the same?

Whatever spirit exists that keeps track of things like Karma and Luck will know I wasn’t wrong. The snow will pile up around you this winter and your home will be warm from the anger inside. There are so many people and so many of them are deaf to everything outside their own head.

His music booms and keeps his downstairs neighbors awake. We lie in the dark, listening, wishing they would go to sleep, too. Your words can’t always help them. Healing crystals are nothing but pretty bits of Earth. Move away.

Another foreign-tongued boy. They are some miracle, like me but not like me. I will never be as easily interesting as that bilingual brain.

“That is what has hurt me the most,” she says, “over and over again through the years. Loving people who don’t love me. But I won’t stop.”

Think of it like the size of the waves and not the tide itself. From on top of all that we can see much more clearly our chaos. There is some safety raft, or there will be. Some sweet, warm ride. Some life jacket from shark’s teeth and seagulls.

Let memories be behind you. There is much more to see.

At forty he speaks with the mouth of a 16 year old and it is not good anymore. Not because of age but because of repetition. He is saying different things but with the same tone, and it is all meaningless and a waste of trees. But who are we to judge? Does anything matter? Is it only important because life will keep going after we all die? If not, what other reason is there? Maybe she is not a believer but is searching for some kind of enlightenment.

It is only good until people have had enough of it. We are filled and then become empty again.

In my dream I am a witch with a broomstick.

Count the lines in the corner of her eyes. Can you read them like tea leaves?

God did not do anything. Sit down. Look at everything that has been built and destroyed because of us. We will go on making things until we cannot even when other people have had enough of it.

 

She is not allowed to love anyone else but me. Even after two years. Even after months of awkward struggles for conversations. She is not allowed to move on. She is not allowed to get over me.

He sends me music like he did years ago like that will mean anything. It is falling on deaf ears. I will never hear you again.

I often wonder what part of humanity makes us like this. If it is biological or social. If she wants me to keep loving her because of ego or loneliness or mating possibilities, or all of the above. And I wonder why I wasn’t good enough in that moment, and if I would be now, or later, or never. And what makes that be so, is it biological or social?

At least it is all interesting, this life. Even the terrible parts. Even the boring parts. It has all been done before but never by you. It is old and new at the same time. And it is different and the same. Like the love she has for me. It is still there. It is still secretly, secretly waiting. But ends come. Ears stop listening. Another one is coming soon.

Music plays in my head. It is some classical song my brain has dredged up from somewhere.

I am thinking of that day. Classical stories and classical music and classic heartbreak. It will never be the same. That is good and that is bad.

I don’t know if all of this is boring and wasteful and pointless. Isn’t everything? It might be good. It might get better.

Maybe it is mortality. The end. The no going back. The finishing of some young story-line. The realization she doesn’t want you anymore, or ever again. The death of some thing, some chance, some hope.

“Sushi stop is good,” he said. But I don’t like sushi. And he doesn’t like me, I think, while my brain writes it’s own versions of classical music. Who’s to say it isn’t?

 

It is a small thing. It is not as big as you think it is.

Imagine a wedding-type ceremony, with two people standing next to each other in front of a room full of people. Imagine them promising not to spend their lives together, but to never speak to each other again. Imagine them walking back down the aisle, all the people watching, and from that moment never interacting again.

This happens all the time, in some way. It is a small thing. It is not as big as you think it is.

There are more fish in the sea, says some mother figure in my mind. I agree with her, staring off into the darkness of my bedroom at midnight on a work night..

The years have only taught me that the people you love now will become shitty and/or get tired of you or start to hate you.

I can hear my upstairs neighbors watching Friends. The theme song gives it away. It reminds me of childhood and family and sitting on a big green lumpy couch in a tiny living room.

I am beginning to understand why people get married. After some amount of failures and sadness and shitty people, they find someone to watch Friends with at midnight on a work night. And they think, not this one, I won’t lose this one. Not this time. And they involve a ring and a room full of people and a nice cake. And if they promise in front of those people and with that cake while wearing the rings, it means something. It means they can never leave each other to watch Friends alone.

I can now name the feeling in my stomach. It was apprehension. Knowing that not much good could come from anything, that sometimes it’s too hard for people to understand each other, that they won’t listen and can’t comprehend. That they have to protect themselves and always believe they are right. That it is so easy, now, to push a button and make it all go away. To not have to face anything difficult, to not have to fight for it, so easy to be apathetic. To be angry and stubborn and foolish and stupid and young even though we are all getting older.

It is too much and it is nothing. Another person gone, another death. More time to meet more people to eventually grow sick of, or love, or both.

It is some ending that needs a mark. Some little death that needs a tombstone. To be remembered. In memoriam.

We are all young and old and stupid and foolish, and we will always keep walking away and walking toward something else.