Grip

What you don't have you don't need it now,
what you don't know you can feel somehow.

I found her. I realized I found her yesterday. That lady, that someone dark and delicious and lit from within. That person that I sometimes forget is always there. She's choosy, sometimes hard to find. It takes a lot to get her out sometimes. I have needed a lot of things from a lot of people for a lot of different reasons in the past. I reread the letter you wrote me. Kept in the same folder with bank statements, pay stubs, all my important documents, to remind me that I'm more than a pile of numbers and plastic cards. To remind me to work on being as amazing as someone thinks I am.

My world's on fire, how 'bout yours?
That's the way I like it and I'll never get bored.

Good deeds. Kind words. Closed eyes and clenched fists. The lies are tempting. A siren song of finding the understanding I so crave. But am I the one to do it? I try to ignore the scraping scratching skittering chewing gnawing that threatens me with sleeplessness. That was a tangent. Is honesty something I'm willing to deceive for? I could do it, mention the schedule, the timing, press my lips into the fine line that tells everyone I'm about to crack, stare into his eyes and let the pain and anger he caused me show, letting him take it for fear and apprehension. Lie. I could. Let him sweat, watch him squirm. Find out if the whole thing feels a little familiar to him. And then... what? Reveal the truth? I'm not sure there are enough tums in the world. I want to though. Close to compulsion at this point, I want to know what happens. Mostly, yes, I regret the risks I didn't take, but I'm not sure where the ripples of this one will break, and I'm not sure I want to bring that in.

I won't keep this secret any longer. I liked it for a time, but its time has passed. I suddenly doubt the sheep will judge. Because I'm no longer ashamed. I made my choices, and, let's face it, I wanted to do it. Perhaps honesty would have been better all along. Shoulda woulda coulda. But I'm okay. And not just because of someone's excellent advice, along the smile at your enemies because it drives them nuts line. I want to believe he didn't want to hurt me. I really do. But I also want to believe that I wasn't invested enough to be hurt, and you can see how well that worked out. I'm not sure whether the intent or the result is the important part. I do know I'm okay. I know I haven't been crippled. I want to talk, but I've already confessed enough. Knowledge is power, and he already has too much of it over me.

Pain is fleeting,
Blows are glancing,
When you're dancing
Through life.

I danced. I thrashed around like a maniac and nobody even looked at me sideways. Well, there were a couple of long-haired, bare-chested boys looking at me sideways, but not because I was dancing like a maniac. I love clubs like that. I drank, I danced. I did what I wanted to and I didn't feel guilty about it at all. I crave complications and seek them out, but sometimes it just has to be simple. Two days later, I look for the complications. I wonder about occupations, I question if I should have done things a little differently. But I had a good night, a night that soothed a part of me I hadn't realized had gone raw. Fortunately I craved the right kind of relief without realizing why. I'll give you a good cuddle.

He wants to talk. He wasn't any use when I needed to talk to him though. Really, I shouldn't have been surprised, since I was the one who did it. I was the one who hurt him, so it shouldn't have surprised me that he stopped being there when I needed him after I pushed him away.

Just a city boy,
Born and raised in South Detroit.

Age is a funny thing. I remember thinking how old they seemed. How wise. How distant and unconnected from me. I remember thinking I couldn't possibly relate, couldn't possibly understand. One more 'so why don't you have a boyfriend?' and I was going to lose it. Now I look at the year in her birthday, and it's one later than his. She's a year younger, this woman who was so much a woman when I was still such a child. This woman who couldn't possibly relate to me, she was simply too old. And he's older than her. It makes me wonder about the perceptions we have of age, the hangups. Old souls.

I'm here. I have this project to work on. I'm not quite sure how to deal with the actual doing bit, but I have the ideas. My nationality is my definition at the moment, and I plan to embrace it. Confessional, performing the wound, two, two, two things in one. I'm thinking of the woman with the once-profound ideas again.

Keep Dreaming,
Daydream Believer