Geode

What else can you do once you've given all you have to give? A broken heart is not symbolic, or rhetoric or metaphorical as anyone who has truly been broken hearted can attest. It's a deep, physical and emotional pain. Pain that inspires the saddest and happiest of times to pendulum thoughts from joy to fury. Tears run to the lips and power the muffled screams of frustration and loss into a tear soaked pillow. A smile makes room for quivering sobs and boats of distraught breathlessness. The ache, the actually void in your chest tightens and tugs and convinces you that you will die, that you deserve to die because the most important person to you in the world is gone, and you will never be the same.

That which I gave is gone. She took it, along with the joy of my soul. My heart has been torn from my body and discarded and I knew it could happen yet she had so much potential to offer, under all her fear and pain and anger that i thought I was strong and good enough to strip from her like a tattered shawl. A shawl? No. A plate of iron, encasing her physical and metaphysical body, attached to every nerve ending and tendon. Permanent save for the devastatingly painful removal that if done right, slowly, would not hurt as much but would hurt for much longer. To look into her eyes and see the dim fire of her spirit ferociously attacked by the demons of the hurt and ruin she lived through cracked my solidity and poured my own into her. All of it and it was fighting a good fight, making steps as one piece of heavy armor clanged to the ground with such conviction and weight it simply settled onto the earth rather than bang and spring around till gravity calmed it's freedom. These plates fell harder than gravities stern will, and fell in the smallest bits.

And so soon did I love her. So soon and so completely and relentlessly did I love her. She was good, but so hurt it hurt me, and she hurt me. I knew with all my heart that if I showed her what she meant to me and the earnesty of me wanting to help her that she'd allow herself to feel and show and embrace the love I felt from her towards me. When the walls came down the passion and love was almost overwhelming. Sadness is in reality, and those rare moments were unbroken geodes. The beauty of what could be with a little effort was so close, and so fucking apparent and real in in our hands but it never broke past what could be.

There will be a part two because I have so much to say but my heart can't take reliving it enough to finish right now.

Shitty entry #1

A sad day begins when the alarm chirps in your ear without giving you so much as a startle before you swing your legs over the side of your bed, in a dark room, and cry into your sleepy eyes onto your shaking hands. The day starts without hope on a bed worn to a slope because the only person who lays in it for more than an occasional night is myself, and the edge i lay on is the same edge I wake from every night.

Digging for change to afford a cup of coffee and most of the time not being able to. Brushing my teeth with an electronic toothbrush that no longer works because i can't afford the two batteries it needs to spin. Putting one leg at a time through jeans as old as the job I wear them for, catching my toes on the holes and flinching at the prospect of making them larger; winter is coming. Placing a meager lunch of baked chicken and an apple into a King Soopers bag I reuse till it tears apart, and reaching for the keys to a car that at any second could fall apart while I'm driving and maybe hurt me or someone else.

8 hours pass as they do, sometimes fast sometimes slow. Always sadly and always by the end of the day having succeeded in sucking me dry of every ounce of ambition and hope I have.

A drive home with a mind so given in to the concept of unhappiness the hour in traffic isn't remotely bothersome because it delays the moment I open my door. My door to an empty house that reflects my fuckitall attitude.

I've turned sour. I don't have a skip in my step. I don't have goals anymore. I don't care. The terrible reason behind this is so stupid, but I have been hurt by every single woman I have ever dated. Every fucking one of them.

I used to want to kids. Not anymore. I used to want to get married. Not anymore. I used to want a lot of things. Not so much anymore.

I'm over it. I'm pissed off and hurt and I don't even want to write. I thought it would help but all its doing is hurting more.

Tug

I remember a time when I used to write. A time when I would jot down any idea through words or quick scribbled drawings, and put them all in a box or folder I kept with the proud intention of one day, when I was on my way, taking them out and sorting through them all to make more ideas. Every idea, no matter how absurd or poorly worded or sketched was kept and treasured. In those days I cared. I believed, and knew with all my heart what my true calling was and I was excited for it. I just KNEW I could do it, because out of every small obsession and passion in my life this was the one, my creative motif, that has stuck and never left me. Like a stray cat that no matter the neglect you show it, or beat or chase away, it is always there, somewhere, waiting again for the day for you to care and love it again because that time changed it's life.

As the years have gone on, so have the contributions to my tattered accordion folder of almost every single catchable idea I've had since I started writing them down. But the yellowing pages of dream worlds past and heroes and stories of love and hope, of devastation and monsters and fantasy outnumber the fresh but crinkled notes of my yesterdays. It seems like my life is shrinking. My tears flood my passion for everything I enjoy away. I don't feel like it serves a purpose. It seems like my only audience is myself and I don't deserve it. Not anymore. Not after how I've neglected it.

And still I feel it. I feel this tug on my heart that I have a purpose. That all of this struggle and emotional armageddon has landblasted the rocky foundation for me to build the world I want for myself upon. This tugs at my soul. It pulls like a child wanting to go to the park and ride their dirty bicycle under the warm sun and singing birds would tug at your sleeve as you ready for work. I also remember the day when I tugged on my imagination in this way, coaxing it to come play with me.

And alone i sit in a cold condo typing slowly with saddened fingers on a laptop that like everything else I seem to own, is slowly and visibly breaking down. The people closest to me, including my therapist tell that my own arch enemy is myself. I am nemesis to my own happiness. I take each setback and failure and wave a filthy white flag, and almost always before I've even fought back. The red eyes of my nemesis stare down on my submissive stooped shoulders with confidence and hatred, Hatred for the world in which it can't affect and lust for the pain it can so easily afflict upon me.

So pity has been the water for my soul. It makes me feel like people care about me. When I am down, when I am at my most desperate and weak do people reach out. Then do they acknowledge me and my company. Pep talks keep me company, but it's a friend wearing the clothing of my disappointments, the rude neighbor who drives the car you sold him because you couldn't afford the payments. 

So alone I sit. Where do i find the strength to tug at the sleeve of everything I know I can be? What do I have to do? Never mind what I have to do, how?! How the fuck do I do it? 

All I've ever wanted is to be in love with a woman so madly in love with me we could stop the expansion of space and break the reaches of time with only a look into each others eyes and touch of our lips. All I've ever wanted was to have the time and freedom and success to turn my ideas into reality and show it to people, share it with them. To watch an audience member look to his girlfriend through the darkness of a theatre, slouching against his shoulder and wrapped around the arm that holds her and kiss her tear streaked cheek. I want to take people places, make them feel things and maybe awaken something inside them dying like it is with me. To have someone buy my art and find something in it to relate to or appreciate.

I want to be happy. I want to feel real hope, a sign that things will turn around if I just push a little harder. I want to keep my faith in my god and my spirituality because it has kept me alive when there was nothing in my mind else to live for. I want to share this abundance of love inside me, a love this world is parched for, with the people in my life, the world around me and leave something behind. I want to have legacy greater than one of unkept potential and wish-i-did memories. For today, I just want to stop crying, and hold someone that I know is out there for me close to my heart and feel my pain dissipate from her loving and healing touch for me, and fill her with my love, and for that moment however long or fleeting stop the world so I can catch my breath.