Musings on... I don't know.

{Truthfully this was in a word document on my computer, and I don't really remember when I wrote it. But I liked it. I'd like to edit it and do something with it someday}

I suppose I’ve known it longer than I like to entertain sometimes. Not that I’ve ever been the perfect portrait of decency, but there’s a certain weight carried with being sure you’re falling in love with someone who is not a part of your very current romantic relationship.

It’s not quite just love, and it’s not quite just romance. It is (figuratively of course) an ever-present wreath of ribbons – all colors of the rainbow. People like to think of the lustful reds and innocent pinks of pure love, but denying envy-green or tearful blues is foolish. It’s so much more than that. It’s not always fun. It’s not always pleasant. But we face those woven moments with brave faces, tight lips, and steadied hearts because we know it is worth it.

We face those moments because we can think back on the times spent holding hands in toy stores, or the long, warm minutes spent in each other’s arms in crowded spaces. We face those moments because when they are finished, they are gone forever, but what comes next might just be infinite; might be kept forever fresh in our memories.

The art of loving is similar to the art of writing in this way. We, as writers, learn to weave stories. We collect thoughts and create ideas. We form characters and place them where they need to be, in our own minds and in our own stories. There is no universal answer. Everything is dependent on how we feel and what we think. What makes us happy or sad. What we desire and what we turn away from. Our stories can become every bit as erotic and complex as our affections, and that may be the sole reason that something has been building inside of me, no matter how silly and over-worded it is.

It’s some ridiculously done way of telling you that I love you, and love so many things about you. You are incredible, no matter how ridiculous you may be at times. You can be a selfish and self-contained man, but, somewhere inside, there is something pushing at the surface. The glimpses are fleeting but I know that it’s there, and I have treasured those moments when it has come out for a glance at the world.

There is a reason for my loving you, and a reason for the urgency of being with you. There was a reason that something clicked when I met you again – something strong enough that I couldn’t stay where I was because I thought of you in the distance and knew I couldn’t stand to keep you that far away from me.
And there is a reason that, through six paragraphs of nonsense and false paths, I felt the need to tell you that I would do so much to have you here with me in my bed tonight, if only I could.

Unrefined tidbit backing Rupture?

"Lie to me -
convince me that I've been sick forever,
and all of this will make sense when I get better
but I know the difference
between myself and my reflection
I just can't help but to wonder...
which of us do you love?"

Her head had smashed in the bottom half of the hallway mirror - not enough to break it apart, but enough to leave a thick spiderweb of cracks dipping into shallow curve that marked the point of impact.

Kanako looked down, eyes darkened by her black curls falling into her face.
"Bitch."

And as Urara awoke at the bottom of the stairs, she looked up to see her own broken reflection peeking over her mother's body.

In these times that are full of angels

One
Brief
Cold
Sinking
Moment

Phone ringing off the hook,
wall stained red,
eyes open,
mind closed.

Bang bang - you're dead

From a product of the Disney generation

But of course, didn't Petrarch fall in love with Laura for the rest of his life after only a glimpse?

Oh fuck it.

Fourteen people died near me today in a shooting. By "near me" I mean half an hour away, in the city where I go shopping and fly into and out of for trips. Close enough to be considered "in the area."

What happened? He blocked the back door with a stolen car, meaning it was premeditated. And then he simply walked in and started shooting.

It's a reality check.
A disturbing, surreal, cold, harsh reality check.
My friends and I have been saying the same things that the news stations and residents are saying: "These things don't happen here."

It's frightening to think of. The fact that, in a small area where little to no violence ever takes place, you can get up one day to go to work or to volunteer and end up dead.

I have been frightened of life a good deal already.
I have one shot that I want to make count. I want to be someone and I want to be someone I can be proud of. I want to be happy and have worthwhile experiences.
But what have I been doing?
Sitting around waiting for life to come to me.

I'm a mediocre student studying twenty minutes away from home. I have taken risks but never ones that would cause long-term consequences. With the exception of college, which I'll be paying off for half of my life.

I don't want to make the wrong decisions and not be able to correct them before it's time to go.
And it was proven to me again today that life is too short to be hesitant, but that scares me more.

And right now? I don't know what to think.
I'm mostly alone tonight. No one is reachable or if they are, they're busy. It's quiet.
I'm sitting with my laptop in front of the television and I can't help but be reminded of the weekends when my grandmother was in the hospital. I would come home to take care of the house, and sit alone quietly for two or three days.

I can feel myself closer to that emptiness again - the feeling that there is nothing and no one there. The loneliness of no one to turn to.

Logically I am perfectly safe. I am sitting in my warm, lighted home in a completely quiet little town.
But I don't think I have been this terrified in a long time.

What do you do where there is nothing to do?

When it gets cold...

The trampoline dipped under my weight slightly - not really enough to offset his at its central point though, and when he shifted the whole thing pulled, knocking me to my hands and knees. He laughed a little as he bounced a couple centimeters in the air, while I carefully crawled to join him.
The physics dynamics of a trampoline are tricky.

I rolled over onto my back, and I could feel gravity lightly press my side into his after he flopped backward to join me.

Now I'm not sure if you've ever seen the moon from New York in the spring. No, I don't mean New York City. You can't see anything from the city - it's too loaded up with streetlights, cars, neon signs... The city can't give you nighttime, just nightlife.
This is the moon from real New York. Streetlights are few and far between. Houses give off some soft light and the only neon sign in town is fairly unoffensive.

The stars shine out like little holes poked through a velvet blanket, with Heaven peeking through. And the moon? It's huge. Bright. Beautiful. Like some sort of divine jewel - you can't help but wanting to try to reach for it no matter how far away it is.

"I'm scared." I said. Nothing more. I didn't look to see his reaction, but I wondered what he was thinking.
He didn't respond, so I felt for his hand. He took mine, squeezing it lightly, and I wondered if he knew the feeling.

I wondered if he ever felt afraid of being far from his boyfriend, or the legal trouble he had gotten in. I wondered if he was afraid of losing the friends he had left. Was he afraid of losing me too?

We laid there for at least half an hour. The air was getting cold, but neither of us moved. He'd had the common sense to wear his hoodie out, whereas I was stuck in just a t-shirt, but I blocked out the chill and sighed softly.

It was then that I heard, very quietly to the point of almost being nonexistant, the sound of his voice saying the words, "Me too."

And here we go...

A beautiful writer named Alice once told me that the most important thing is not what you write or how well you write, but that you write at all.

I suppose somewhere along the way I forgot about this rule, because what inevitably happens when I begin is that I can't recognize the writer I once was, and the frustration leaves me sick of my own words. I've left behind many stories.

So many characters.

The funny thing is that the best writers are ones who did not create their characters, but let their characters create themselves. I wonder if the young girl with the rare variation of color-blindness has gotten to find out what blue means. Or if April's day got better - did her boyfriend finally propose? What did Sarah's baby boy look like, and did Andrew step up to the responsibilities of a father? How did Brian Shaw feel about his son's lie?

I should feel like I let them down, but I'm sure they feel it through me already.
I have been convinced for some time that I simply have lost any and all feeling, and that this loss has killed the writer inside me.

My best times writing fiction were when I was at my lowest. I could only write when I was unhappy because the emotions were strongest then. My last works of pure beauty were written in the final months of my grandmother's life, and after that I thought maybe I had lost it all, because no point could go lower than that. No sadness could ever compare.

Right now I'm happy.

All I want to do is talk about it.
Not here. I can't do that here in detail.
I can't really do it anywhere in detail.

But I can feel that passion that I had at one point welling up in me again, and I have realized that my inspiration did not come from sadness or anger, but from feeling in general. My passion wasn't locked in the lower parts of myself, but I'd simply convinced myself that it must be because of who I was during the majority of my time as a writer.

Who am I now?
That's a question I am tackling every day.
You can't be someone until you know who you are.

But I do know I am a writer, no matter how my talent has shifted or what I need to recapture and learn how to weave again.

Writing is the desire to share something. I want to describe and define. I don't care if it's a walk down the street, an easy character, or an elaborate fantasy world.
I want to explore language again. I want to sort out the cacophony in my head so that I can file away the insecurities and articulate the music. I want to play with my vocabulary and relearn how to fit completely unrelated words into one coherent character.

Fortunately I think this is a good mix: the low chance of anyone running across this will keep me free, while the chance at all will keep me at least slightly contained.

Here goes nothing.