EPTIf you're unsure of what this blog is about, it's just generally food for thought [of my day] so 1. ease back and get out your utensils, 2. don't fill up on bread and 3. tip your waiter with your own thoughts or sentiments.
Thanks
Winter Parmesan and Myself, Tortellini
Dear you... [Girl blog?]
Dear you,
Yes, you. I shan't name yourself, but we both know to who I write this to. To whom I've written to before with a digital penmanship unrecognizable, yet the words easily distinguished. I write to you with a heavy heart, one with regret, pain and truth. One that ponders harder than the eternal gaze of The Thinker and one that has squeezed its last ounce of life without you. I write to you with neither a plan, intent or motive besides for your eyes to lull while reading this, to fall into a peace that soothes your mind and calms your soul. I write to you purely for your attention, a dew that rejuvenates my willingness to keep on writing.
Do you remember what I wrote years ago? Do you remember how I damped each word carefully, selected them from an array that appeared more clear than the next? Do you recall how I've tapped into an area you never once considered, a depth of love you matured without acknowledging, perceiving or taking out from the shade?
*Written in 2008
I can't stand it. I'm literally doing nothing as I sit here dawdling my thumbs 'till you come back into view.
The more I ponder back on today, the more irritated I get at the loss of time over shenanigans that I've conjured up with insecurity. I cannot help but see the difficulties we overcome as fragments of a reflection deep of my own troubles. Not with those sprouted ruthlessly from my mother and my childhood, but my core beliefs that are sub-consciously and constantly filtering innocent moments with another to be warning labels and subtle signs of what I fear the greatest, the most.
It's a bit... oxymora. The worries we have, tend to infest into the reality we fear or become the future we desperately hope never comes. The more I worry about him and the possibilities, the more I push you away. My words may ring a good note of truthfulness, but my actions and worrying speak a different sonata, no?
Oh, how much brilliancy do I have to ignore the proof that validates what I needlessly need to deduce. That you truly are mine and mine only. My assertion in my mind keeps distorting into an image I worry constantly: You with someone else. Someone who has more security and believes that he truly is up to par, who merits you in every majestic and bewildering aspect that simply makes me light-headed with wonder at how I could be so fortunate, so... lucky. Your words and faithfulness is benign. Your intelligence and third-eye of wisdom is full of promise. Your future is gleaming with prosperity and success. Your hand swerves with a wonderful talent like a slow foxtrot to a melodious tune. Your outer beauty has no flaws or shortcomings. It stuns me with gloom eyes in comparison to me and my physical appearence. Desire to feel your silky coiled hair, yearning that your hands endow mine with their warm touch. Pining away the time 'till I hear from you again.
That evidence of your words projecting such sincerity and art of how you feel for me. The snapshots of pleasurable places on your body and moments I conjecture with a fetish and perverted tongue. The sacrifices and adaption you willingly incline yourself to provide for me, the mere fact of money spent calling me from afar for your own supposed essentials of hearing my voice. My voice that whispers love and adoration for you, but does not speak aloud his troubled and silly mind.
Now, here I am. Lingering in the evening, sauntering each meaningless action that pertains an absence of you. How do I convince myself to trust you, my goddess. A female deity to everyone. Someone that perfection attempts to define by itself, but only radiates it more by it's incompetence to accomplish the task that's beyond the bounds of possibility. How do I convince myself to trust people. To trust that all actions have no second-motive, a less innocent and favorable justification. That the two faces I see are allied with me and do not seek malicious intent in the sober shadows of spite and wickedness.
Sigh, this uneasiness and difficulty to cope is only appeased by your constant words of integrity and logic. When the clock chimes that horrid and repugnant hour of sleep, I weep wondering what diversion could possible be in a remotely near comparison to you. My singing dove and sugar pastry.
I have no scheme or plan of what to do here. I want to try and adorn you with my love, feeble and unsatisfying it may be. But the pesters of many male variables interacting with you makes my addicted veins pump furiously and my heart grips a little tighter to the abyss of what could possibly ruin this felicity, this bliss my worrying and atrocious accusations are currently crushing with an impending and unremorseful outcome.
Illuminate me with something inspiring and endearing from your heart. Something of the sort. I simply wish to talk to you once more. Once more, I try to suppress, dissolve these frivolous mental hardships. You reassured me once by saying you'll watch out for him, I hope that still rings true.
I can't stand it. I'm literally doing nothing as I sit here dawdling my thumbs 'till you come back into view.
The more I ponder back on today, the more irritated I get at the loss of time over shenanigans that I've conjured up with insecurity. I cannot help but see the difficulties we overcome as fragments of a reflection deep of my own troubles. Not with those sprouted ruthlessly from my mother and my childhood, but my core beliefs that are sub-consciously and constantly filtering innocent moments with another to be warning labels and subtle signs of what I fear the greatest, the most.
It's a bit... oxymora. The worries we have, tend to infest into the reality we fear or become the future we desperately hope never comes. The more I worry about him and the possibilities, the more I push you away. My words may ring a good note of truthfulness, but my actions and worrying speak a different sonata, no?
Oh, how much brilliancy do I have to ignore the proof that validates what I needlessly need to deduce. That you truly are mine and mine only. My assertion in my mind keeps distorting into an image I worry constantly: You with someone else. Someone who has more security and believes that he truly is up to par, who merits you in every majestic and bewildering aspect that simply makes me light-headed with wonder at how I could be so fortunate, so... lucky. Your words and faithfulness is benign. Your intelligence and third-eye of wisdom is full of promise. Your future is gleaming with prosperity and success. Your hand swerves with a wonderful talent like a slow foxtrot to a melodious tune. Your outer beauty has no flaws or shortcomings. It stuns me with gloom eyes in comparison to me and my physical appearence. Desire to feel your silky coiled hair, yearning that your hands endow mine with their warm touch. Pining away the time 'till I hear from you again.
That evidence of your words projecting such sincerity and art of how you feel for me. The snapshots of pleasurable places on your body and moments I conjecture with a fetish and perverted tongue. The sacrifices and adaption you willingly incline yourself to provide for me, the mere fact of money spent calling me from afar for your own supposed essentials of hearing my voice. My voice that whispers love and adoration for you, but does not speak aloud his troubled and silly mind.
Now, here I am. Lingering in the evening, sauntering each meaningless action that pertains an absence of you. How do I convince myself to trust you, my goddess. A female deity to everyone. Someone that perfection attempts to define by itself, but only radiates it more by it's incompetence to accomplish the task that's beyond the bounds of possibility. How do I convince myself to trust people. To trust that all actions have no second-motive, a less innocent and favorable justification. That the two faces I see are allied with me and do not seek malicious intent in the sober shadows of spite and wickedness.
Sigh, this uneasiness and difficulty to cope is only appeased by your constant words of integrity and logic. When the clock chimes that horrid and repugnant hour of sleep, I weep wondering what diversion could possible be in a remotely near comparison to you. My singing dove and sugar pastry.
I have no scheme or plan of what to do here. I want to try and adorn you with my love, feeble and unsatisfying it may be. But the pesters of many male variables interacting with you makes my addicted veins pump furiously and my heart grips a little tighter to the abyss of what could possibly ruin this felicity, this bliss my worrying and atrocious accusations are currently crushing with an impending and unremorseful outcome.
Illuminate me with something inspiring and endearing from your heart. Something of the sort. I simply wish to talk to you once more. Once more, I try to suppress, dissolve these frivolous mental hardships. You reassured me once by saying you'll watch out for him, I hope that still rings true.
Yes, it is rough around the edges, equal to how unfocused this insane need for you was back then and is now. I tried to polish it, I tried to wipe myself down, clean my worries before you; to be everything that you need with the knowledge that it wouldn't be enough. It'll never quench your yearn for more, beyond the charade and masquerade of what I could best muster. A pale imitation of water, a gaseous scent that caresses you will never cease that thirst. Is this because of the obstacles that halt our reach for one another? That they are simply too large, too grand to ignore, to feign an unimportance. No, these obstacles are neither the faults of our own, neither the fault of the world we damn and nor the surrounding lives we touch with sincere smiles and disguises of where our other half may be.
The situation you whispered into my ear hesitantly is one that cringes my very mind. That can't be soothed until I accept the realization, a reality that my imagination can't dissuade, sway into the negligible. No matter what coos you cradled me with, the choice continues to rustle, to clamor and berate me with my inabilities, to adhere to what is essential, obvious, to a someone of your caliber, to your perfection and ironic imperfections.
However, I've exhaled. I've accepted what you want and I feel you need. I've handed you back the key, I've moved out without moving on and left behind all laughs, tears and frustrations. I'll always have my luggage of our times and those in-between moments we've taken for granted, in my pocket, a currency I'd trade for more time, but will now be pining away time.
A time without you, something to let go, something to transcend with our steps in directions we neither agree, but have traced for times like these...
), This is kind of poetic but without the structure and way too long. Kinda off topic, have you read any Ondaatjie? He writes very poetic novels that don't sound poetic at all. Might be a good place for ideas.
