Sometimes I want to fall in love so badly it makes me sick.
Sick of you. Sick of reaching in my corrupted mind for a hand that doesn't belong to me.
Sick of watching films and wishing almost every girl in them was me. Wishing I had a somebody to fight for, cry over, kiss and hold onto whenever I felt like it, which surely would be always. Sick of waiting.
Sick of pretending this doesn't drive me insane, being alone in this way. I'm so happy for the life I have--the kind of happiness you don't get sick of. But does that mean this post makes that vain? Am I a liar, even to myself?
Truth is I miss a lot of things. I miss the way it was when I hear an old song I used to know. Now it's just music riddled with a distant memory. It's distorted. Confused. Like my lonely heart. I want it back the way it was. Simple. Clear. Beautifully painful. There lies my cupidity.
Am I selfish to write the things I do when all I really want is a heart that wants to keep mine the way I would want to keep theirs? Am I selfish to want more? To want a Tony? A James? A William? Someone to get lost in. It's like this-- I cry myself to sleep hoping to feeling better, only hurting myself by focusing on who or what I don't have, but I honestly feel some part of me can't help it and I never like to blame things on not being in control of my actions--I believe most of the time one is. But it gets tricky when it comes to matters of the heart. Doesn't it? Very tricky. I like to think the heart is the center of ourselves, the very core of who we are, but how can that be if it truly is one of the only things we can't really control? We can bridle it. We can try to tame the beautiful beast within it, but is it truly possible? I don't know. Life is supposed to be the one uncontrollable aspect of nature...so does that make the real core of life, our own life, our very own hearts?
I really don't know a whole lot.
I just see and believe. I watch things and I try to listen, but sometimes it isn't easy--to pay attention. But this life has little to offers in terms of solid unchangeable knowledge. Everything changes. People grow older. Moons come and go. The sun falls and rises like a steady pattern of breathing, each day bringing different light. Dreams evolve. People die, leave, walk away or come home at last. But what happens to the heart? Where does it go when these changes come? What happens to a fragile creature when it burns and in the end crumbles into beautiful crystals of ash? Surely it rises. It begins again. And again.
So this feeling will pass, this utter loneliness within me that is selfish and ugly and unfair, but only after I rise from it. In order for a phoenix to be born again it must burn and collapse it's past self into the ashes it created. Then and only then does it rise, reborn, made anew in a baptism of fire and soot--one side beautiful and one side seemingly ugly. I find both the halves equally pleasing, they both create a new bird and I know that will come for me one day.
One day when I'm less lonely.
Less confused and sad and happy.
One day when I'm loved as wholly as I know I am capable of loving.
One day little bird, you will fly.
-k.p.
6/13/2016
