|Time to go home!
||[May. 15th, 2008|06:22 pm]
the name is grae
|||||Leona Lewis - Bleeding Love||]|
Dear Journal. How many sorrys does it take to say "I love you"? How many songs to say "I'm sorry"? How many phone calls to get used to being picked up by a machine with more mind than yourself? How many times do you have to be lost for everything lost finding your soul? Does this own my heart? Will I be able to breathe without it? Will a book ever be the same without those words making it somewhat complete?
Wanting the light off for a wink of sleep away from the timeless insomniac in me.
Will a television show be hushed over, and a couch occupied by more than one person, one bowl, and one bottle of beer? Does the dawn of day break a heavy sky without all of it? Does it really fill a void that was temporarily grounded? Does this not inspire me to live? Am I myself without a guiding hand and loving touch? May I ever be granted one last privilege—even if it is the last thing I will do, to tell, how cold it is without a smile, how gluttonous a lunch break is without a thought, how hard a kiss is from a child looking to find his mom, when all I can do is twitch in return and wonder. Wonder why it happened and why it will not disappear. Why I am broken and break others because of that. Why I am fucked up and selfish. Why I needs everything, besides being kissed, touched, held, loved, wanted, craved, depended upon, trailed, tested, pushed, slapped, hit, hurt, crushed, whatever. Why the last of the aforementioned should be crossed and labeled beside mistrusted on the ''done'' list.
Why it shouldn't have happened. Why it should've never been under observation in the first place. Why God would bless a lowly woman with an angel, only for Satan to clip her wings and trap her with his fork. Placing it in the ground and leaving three choices. Love, torture, or sin. Most would take the first path. Most will take the first path. Most have taken the first path. I know I would NOT. Even now. You know each will intertwine along the way but you still yearn for the best results on your own part. If this is all selfish then why the fuck does love exist? If we set out to satisfy ourselves and learn to love ourselves by loving others, why do we have to hurt them? Why do I have to hurt them? Why can't I spread my wings and fly… just away? Why do we have to be alone? Love isn’t true. It’s just something that we do. Love is unkind. Love is a test. Love is—something I've had and don’t want again. Love is something that will always die before hate.
From a homeless, dying man in Asia to a wealthy Laird in Europe to the diseased woman left to die with a child in her arms praying not for life, but for love or something like it. For the new day. For her child. For her care, and for their hearts, and for their lives.
We chose a path pressed out for us and with a numb torment we watch it destroy an innocent woman. The angel has no right to be any place but Eden. Kept there, forever. Love a person and never lose that. Love them forever and be with them through it all. Never hurt them, never bury them. (Yeah, right! ha ha) Never destroy a flower without a meaning. Never destroy it—all at once.
I once knew a woman that entered a life without pretense. A life without intent or cruelty. This woman was betrayed. This woman was to take a soul and hold it forever with her heart attached to it. Let her body sour the land, as long as she stays with this soul to use up her last shred of dignity and last, lone arrow of hope. Allow her to play cupid with the strings of her own destiny and kiss her like she would never kiss another and never has. Give her one more chance to stare into the narrow eyes of an independent life without her heart and without her body and her soul. Give her freedom from her mind she cannot escape. Give her one last phone call to say those words and knowing she mean them.
Dear journal, dear butterfly, dear you and you, me, myself and I. Dear carpenter, dear wanderer. Dear traveler, dear friend, dear child, dear mother, dear daughter, dear grass, dear dust. Were you all to crowd together would you help a dancer that cannot Foxtrot, dance the Waltz with the soul of her dreams?
Could you please reach out and hit me harder than anyone before? And use these words to do it, my wings to fly, your beauty, your malice, your reason for being my hatred, my self-loathing, and my spirit. Your scaffold, your map and your residence. Your hand, bed and your tales. Your stories, your color, your authenticity and get through to me, that when I close my eyes, I see nothing but a reason, a fight. When I dream, I want to live. Let my arms link around a memory's waist to familiarize myself with heaven and leave my kisses all over a face.
It's funny that history repeats itself. Lines and seconds and looks and fears, loss and seconds can ease from a page and a moment in time when it was not real to say these things then, but it is now. Now they play and you cannot stop them. You will not stop them. You cannot change them. They are there and they are here. I breathe and I can see the dream is there. I sleep and the dream is gone. Words cloud visions as smog covers a road. You can't see where you are going and where you will end up, you may reach your destination or have to stop until it clears and when it clears, it might be gone. But maybe—maybe only then will a person move on and never ever look back or remember that place they were headed for so long.
My heart is cold. I'm losing my mind. An obstruction of vision will not let the same thing happen twice, I hope. Forgiveness is relative and right now, I have lost it all. When I held that imaginary substance in my arms and they saw I did, it was amazing. I was wearing a sweater and I was present right there in front of me. That was all. That was the final straw. I should be doing this again, although I already miss it. I should watch these fake tears fall and should let them fall against my skin, to cause a scar. In some way. If I'm never wanted to be seen again then at least I will have something to remember that moment by.
I cannot live without that moment. When I stop making sense or make less sense as the letters go by and at all costs let it be known that... whatever! Did you know that every window on Alcatraz has a view at the water?
I am weak. I regret nothing. I am strong. I regret felt before. Regret enough to take this opportunity to cross my beliefs and say that something else does exist and if it has never been felt, there's one person being fooled or one person being spared. Regret that reaches in, rips out the truth, and presses it flat to the ground, and screams THIS IS LIFE. This is my life. This is our life. Why the fuck can I not be strong enough to demand? What do I fear? I do not fear anything. Do you hear me fear? I laugh you in the face. Why is it there and why has it not been there before. I feel the racing hearts of a thousand prisoners queuing for their death. I feel their bodies shaking, causing goose-bumps on my own skin. Drawing fine-shaped letters on it, until I bleed. Playing hopscotch with veins I will never need again. Intertwining where I am left to my own devices and my own foolish jabber. A blade held to my throat, as this isn't cutting anything, anymore. Pun unintended. My soul dies not alone or without you. The words of which? I am hopeful to see you again. I am sure you became an angel. A breath of relief will circulate the air for all eternity. I died with you, not without you. And living—should I have to, alone will be different. It won’t be me.
Somehow, it always comes back to you.
I saw the future, and it was good, but then it wasn’t. A little boy called out ''momma''. He painted a picture and it was of only two. We built castles in the sand and on the throne sat a Prince and a Queen. Just another Thursday and a mere memory that neither should have been. (Dawn’s in trouble, must be Thursday!)
I'm supposed to apologize, but I forgot what about, and to whom.
To the world, I'm sorry. To my mother, I still love you, even though you yelled. To my Dad, please don’t cry. To myself? I have nothing to say to myself. May I be? May I say, with a relaxed heart in its final motion, I am. It is. It always has been. It always will be. That will never change. Can I please change my mind tomorrow? Where can I be safe to protect what I do? From even myself. 'Love means never having to say you're sorry'? Crock of shit.