love + lust = lost

He asked if I would bungy jump. "No," I laughed, "I would not."

"What if we went together?" he said.

So, me tied to him at the feet, clinging to him to save my life as we drop.

Again, I laughed, "I would be crying the whole time."

"That's okay," he replied plainly and softly.

He would just like the experience or excuse to be that close. He would like the experience of being the provider of safety to a woman he has a wee crush on. A woman he could never have. That's sweet. At least, it feels sweet. At 27, he doesn't come across as preditorial or greasy, just wholly naive.

Given that the mutual attraction exists, I find his suggestion is intriguing.

You can tell he sees a life force in me that he would like to touch, and finds any excuse to do so.

Those little sparks of attraction, that highway of energy that can be felt when you are just so close to that boundary line, fly, and I think, damn it. 

I eat this shit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner: romance, desire, seduction, innocence, love, human connections. I live for romantic ideals. Sometimes, it is the largest one vein in my body - throbbing for attention. I am forced to write this out of me as other people and their experiences in stories because I am, for the most part, reasonable. I will not act out on irrational thoughts. I love my husband and our life.

But, god damn it, he opened the door.

When someone opens the right door, they pour in light, light that leads me to look into the rooms in which I live every day, and it appears, suddenly, as though perhaps I shorted myself by living in my husband's prison with him. I chose to live here knowingly, because I get to come and go.

He may live every day of his life in the prison of his mind, but I come and go. But, the thing is,  I always come back - to his prison.

Once and a while someone opens a different door, a door that threatens the peace and balance of our half prison home,  and I see the prison for what it is. I end up asking myself how much of my life force am I giving away to this prison?

I don't believe that running off with someone, anyone else, would fix this issue, but it presents the questions: could I be more alive in my own life, do I desire to be more alive in my own life, have I fallen asleep in his cell with him?

Do I have to cross the line when I share time with someone who presents options, is there a way to explore a muse safely? Because of this I have no doubt, he is a muse.

Can I just let him kiss me?

In Which I Walk Through Pain

I am too weak to be an addict, even to something as simple as cigarettes - my constant companion. I don't know that this pain, this anxiety, I feel is directly related to that, although it often seems the culprit, if memory serves correctly.

I could be wrong.

It could be that I feel the anxiety because I am like Theresa Caputo and the deceased, or other-worldly, are trying desperately to communicate with me. It could be that my intuition is screaming about something else.

I've had anxiety before when I was gently refusing to clearly see what was right in front of me. That little excursion brought me to my knees - like I had a rope around my neck and the universe, along with my inside self, yanked me down to my knees with it.

I don't know if this is the case now, you never know these things when you're in the eye of the storm. So all I can say is that I feel the pain of discomfort. The only thing one can do in these circumstances is to ask the universe to "reveal itself."

It sounds corny, but it's true enough. Reveal yourself.

What is there that I should know and I will walk through it. I will lay down my cards, forgive my hand, and... meet the storm.

I would rather that. I would rather there be something rather than nothing.

"There is a move," I hear or make up that I heard. There is a fundamental breakdown in my foundation - a blessing. A longing to feel real.

Bobing for Existence or Pin the Tail on Your Purpose

Fickle. Fickle, fickle humans. Restless and rather stupid. Sometime a simple slap would be a good idea or simply sufficient to shake one out of ones race for completion.

I aspire. It is my strength and my weakness. Because I aspire, because I have passion - a human condition one day, an affliction the next - I evolve, I blossom, and I stink at life.

I have ups and downs that range so radically some days that I long for the day I can flat line. How peaceful that would be. How wonderfully restful.

So what is it? What is this drive for completion? This thirst, this unquenchable thirst. Why can't I just be? Why am I not content?

Will I ever be truly content?

In the Middle

We're moving. Next weekend, we move into our new house. It's bigger, it's nicer, and I pray everyday that it will give us just the right amount of space. Not too much, not too little.

But that is next week. Today, we live like gypsy heathens. My animals eat from empty plates on the coffee table because I have given up trying to keep things clean. My floor is covered in boxes, clumps of dog hair, dirt, and cedar tree bits, and it makes me feel... dispassionate.

Soon, I will move this mess of belongings to a new house that feels void of connection yet has the expectation of home and perfection thrust upon it. It's a tall order that this house will take months to fulfil. Until it does, I will be in the middle of - in between - two homes. I will be without the place where I belong.

It reminds me of when I moved from my marriage to that other home. I remember how it seemed like the connection would never be made; that even though all my belongings where there, I was in a stranger's house. It was lonely.

I thought then that it was because my husband wasn't there, but now I wonder if it will be the same, only we'll be alone together this time.

I make it sound melancholy and  I don't really mean to. It's just something that appears to be there and for that reason alone, I must poke it for more information.

ugh.

It's just that... maybe I also don't want to live this way. Of course, you'll know, I'm talking about work now and not houses. This is, perhaps, the other swollen object in my gut that requires poking.

I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this shit,  this shit of having to put so much of my time to something that bleeds creativity from me. I just want to do it part time - for fuck sakes. It's so demanding.

I'm not sure if I took a wrong turn leaving my last part time job. Then, working from home seemed appealing, and it is cool, but also not cool. And why is it that this job always seems to pulling from me more than it gives?

The manifestation is balance, joy, and contentment (the last two might be one in the same), and I'm not there yet. I find this current job kinda pisses me off. It's great, the people are great, the product is great, the work is demanding - too demanding, at times, in it's relentlessness.

I just need a job that I come to that feels kind and pleasant and where I feel of value and my mind is engaged. A job that fills me up with as much as I put in and leaves me enough time to foster writing and projects. Perhaps I had that before - the money was just a little shy.

So, I tweak the manifestation: balance, joy, financial abundance. I will look to where I want to go. I will focus.

It's good to have goals.

Oh dear god...

I only title this like that because I'm looking for a flare of dramatics over nothing, because isn't it all that? There's nothing wrong, but still, "Oh... dear god" here we go again, she's going to write about nothing as if it were...what?

Beautiful Pieces

I finished a book yesterday, The Storied Life of A.J.Filkry, and it wasn't what I expected. It was shit really. Too simple. But it was really well thought out and well written shit, and only shit because I think the author's ideas are a little before her time still. Tbh, by her picture on the cover I thought she was about 22, I just looked her up and she's 7 years younger than me. Ha ha. 

Still, it was simple. Too simple. 

I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to think I'm communicating something really super deep in a way that sneaks up on the reader only to find that I was actually too inexperienced of a writer (too inexperienced as a person) to do this, and I laid.it.all.out for them as if I was teaching a kindergarten class. 

That would suck. 

I go inside my swirling guts and ask myself some hard questions like, what are you doing?

I hear, one step at a time, man; to which, fair enough. I guess. 

I see these pieces, the beautiful pieces of the-reality-of-being-human floating about. I smile and then I frown and then I smile. I can't decide if I love the simplicity of blundering or if I hate it. Which, in and of itself is interesting.

I am that guy standing at the street light, on foggy, misty night,  waiting for my mysterious self to deliver a message. While I wait, I just sit back and watch the world.

In the distance, a fog horn sounds unexpectedly and I jump. It takes away from my attempt at a cool demeanour.

Nevertheless, one must expel these spiders of thought, these niggling creatures that crawl in my brain as if they belong there. They are like fruit flies in that they don't have to come from somewhere else, the can just grow where once there was none. 

Also like fruit flies, I can coax them into drowning by laying out the sweet smell apple cider vinegar, the invitation to hedonism, and spill them from my finger tips to their death.

The spiders, the dude me at the street light, the judgy-reader, the wannabe writer, they are all beautiful pieces and when I'm right (as in righted) I can accept them with grace (like a mother lovingly watching her bratty kids fight). 

When I'm uncomfortable, it is because I've become one of them, slipped into their skin when I wasn't looking, in an attempt to feel... what? Young again?

I don't know. And now that I've written it all out, I don't care.

Christmas Morning

I'm smoking again, just a little bit. Two a day, to be exact. Smoking always leads me here - unsettled as it were. The great divide of cognitive dissonance. To which I think, meh. How wonderfully human of me.

The great divide leads me to writing my soul, laying it down one letter at a time in hopes of piecing together a puzzle, but I'm trying to put together two puzzles that refuse to merge. One of g.o.d and one of... I don't know: a poor use of my time?

I will stop again - unsuccessful at having a habit of ill repute.

I wonder if Christmas is as gnawing when I don't smoke, as hard on the heart in all it's expectations of love, family, and perfection?  I strive for what I have right in front me. It's so painfully awkward and uphill.

I watched a video today about stress, about looking at stress differently, that it's the body's way of giving you the adrenaline and oxygen you need at a stressful time, it's not a bad thing. But how does that work into anxiety - the constant state of the fear of nothing. The state of your inner peace saying, "Hey, dude... you're not practicing me..."

"Fuck off," I say, but it never does.

It just parks its ass and says, "Whatever, you'll be back" as if mocking me.

It's Christmas morning. The family is just starting to wake up. At fourty-something, I am still the first awake on Christmas morning. But I'm the first awake every morning, so, really, it's just another day.

Cheers.

Heart Kisses

God's kissing my neck again. He's so sweet. His  thumb on my bottom lip while he looks me in the eye. What a guy.

It's hard to not want more.