Throw Me Back To Sea

Last night, I had a dream. I found myself entranced in previous connotations of intrigue and possession. Of all things in my life, it had to be the most deadly experience for my naivety in the art and war of love. Yet somehow, it ensnared me fully.

I lay there in silence, like olden times. Parting and reuniting with this toxic passion. It destroyed me, but its poison made me insatiable. We moved like fish below the rippling waves - gliding with divinity, the sunlight on our skin. I dreamt of nothing more than this; romance, passion, and above all, love.

But too soon, I found myself wriggling for freedom, no oxygen to fill my lungs, and the cold sting of a grapple, ripping at my flesh. All faded from view. All light went to nothingness. All joy went to despair. Reality sank in as though an anchor had been wrapped around my poor, pathetic little heart.

Oh, love. Your deception is too pure for the poet's soul to ingest. Free me from your tyranny, for I shall never feel the warmth of man until his bonds be broken, until he tears this grapple from my jaw and tosses me back to sea. Let me go. Let me feel the sun upon my skin. Let me dance below the rippling waves, gliding with divinity, and feel not the sting of love's deception, but the tenderness of his hands.

Repose

I never imagined that I would hold you in my arms again, nor possess the strength to do so. Yet, here I was; empowered by your radiance and nostalgic beauty. You came from a time I had never wanted to forget, though somehow lost through the slings and arrows of socioeconomics.

I lifted you from your casket and pressed you tightly against my midsection, unsure of what to do for a moment in time. I simply stared down at you, admiring your glorious body and coloring. I ran my fingers over you, coaxing out melodies from times forgotten and greatly missed. My eyes welled and I had to stop - not from the pain my now callousless fingers felt, but from the heartache that I recognized in this moment for not insisting to keep you in my life.

I stroked you again, letting your voice sing a little louder this time - still as euphonious as always, regardless of how long I had left you silent. It warmed my core, and ceased the flowing of my tears. It was all so terrifying and wonderful.

My heart rate climbed as I allowed my lungs to fill with air, and soon, I found my voice synchronized with yours. I could barely make a sound, out of the fear I possessed, but you assured me to relax and embrace our harmony. I obeyed.

In these few short minutes we shared, I felt the life in me resurface, but as soon as I was forced to put you back to rest, the emptiness ensued, and I felt nothing. For those few minutes, you were my revival. How I yearn to hold you once more, to create, to inspire, to muse. In you alone do I find repose.

Terror to Euphoria

The sun is shining today, and all I can think of is just how beautiful it would be to be with you; one unit entwined by the waterside. No words, no thoughts, just that nowness, that energy that spreads from soul to soul.

You can't know how terrified I am of it all - terrified of the wonderment I feel when I find you crossing my mind. So, instead of radiating the fear, I bury it within myself. I let the universe drive. I smile, I laugh, I stare into you, I absorb you. I let the initial shock dissipate into euphoria, and find myself warmer than I have been in quite some time.

I don't mean to startle you, nor do I mean to send you running in the opposite direction, as far from me as you can possibly get. I could never want that for one moment that I breathe on this Earth. My only hope is that you will feel the same, that this magnetism is not unipolar.

So, now, I've opened up the same familiar wound that always stings so much. It is here for you to either sutcher or to re-infect. The choice is up to you. But here will I sit and let the universe drive. Here, I will shiver with terror from the mere thought of what will run through your mind upon reading these things I say. Here, I will smile, I will laugh, I will stare into you, I will absorb you. I will let the initial shock dissipate into euphoria and treasure the very moment when again I see your face - when I feel warmer than I have in quite some time.

Rev Prose 1

The Reverend smiled at me over his shoulder, a sickeningly sweet and disdainful smile that hinted at a little something more. We lay sprawled on his bed, diagonal from each other, but the tops of our heads touched. I didn't love him; hell, he didn't love me, either. Love didn't even matter to us, in truth, for we took great pride in our friendship.
"I know he wants you." He whispered to me in such a cool tone. My pale eyes met his and I furrowed my brows.
"What are you talking about, Rev?" I asked as I rolled onto my side to face him. He watched me do this, seeming somewhat enthralled in the way that my frame moved.
"He wants you." He repeated, gingerly brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
"How do you know?" I inquired. He smiled again to reveal his precious teeth and laid a finger on my chin.
"Who doesn't?" He returned in quite a haughty manner.

"Skip the crap, where's the meat?"
Rev rose from the bed, half-naked, and stretched, proceeding to take a look out of the window.
"An angel might have told me," he stated, his words so carefree. I sat up and wrapped the cow-print comforter over my body.
"Who? Come on, quit the games, Rev, I'm serious! I want to know."
He turned his head slightly and laughed.
"He might have mentioned it to me himself."
This news sent me off the bed, out the door, out of the world in which I'd been placed. A cold sweat ran over me at the thought as I cautiously returned to the conversation.
"What's he said to you exactly?"
"How many times do I need to tell you, Elena? He - wants - you!"
I groaned and wailed.
"I need more than that knowledge," I begged, "Surely he's said more."

The Reverend put on his robe and grabbed a stick of black Max Factor eyeliner. He ran his slim fingers through his messy black hair and sighed.
"Talk to him yourself, dear. That's all it takes."
"Lead me to him," I insisted, "please."
His wild smile returned and I saw him take a card from the end table. He handed it to me and stroked my hand gently.
"Have fun. Be safe."
I grinned, "I owe you."
"Such a sweet dear," He said, calmly, "could you do me a favor and hand me my glasses?"
I looked at him strangely.
"Eyeliner with glasses, Rev? Come on!"
"Don't question my ways, Laney." He warned.
"Okay." I sighed as I slid him the cold metal frames.
"Now, go on. Get out of here and go pursue him. If you don't, plenty of others will."
I saluted him, "Yes, sir!" and grabbed my overnight bag.
"And remember - "
"I know!" I nearly shouted, "I'll keep you informed. Even though he could probably tell you quicker."
"Well, it's always good to hear both sides of the story." he replied, finishing the last touches of black around his beautiful eyes.
"Point taken."
"Come on and hug me. Don't cheat me of that, girl."
I laughed and embraced him hard against me, and I could feel our rib cages clash together. I smiled and breathed in his lovely scent before breaking apart from him.
"Now, go." He insisted.
And quickly, I obliged.

Swimming Upstream (another from the vault)

Yes, I'm flaky and I'm impractical and I'm idealistic. It's a very rare thing for someone to truly understand me and accept me the way that I am. Far too often, I find that I contradict myself, because I'm too indecisive. Perhaps, even, I sometimes give myself too much credit for things.

I'm just sort of hoping that one day, someone will really get me. Someone will truly understand me. To this day, I haven't actually met anyone (not necessarily speaking about romantic inclinations, friends and passersby as well) who truly understands me. To be quite honest, I don't even understand myself sometimes.

Psychologically, I'm a trainwreck. I've got more issues than National Geographic, and I try to cope with that as best as I possibly can. I take my Lithium, I go to therapy, I do my best to maintain a positive, healthy life - not only physically, but mentally. I'm not always successful, but I do attempt to be.

I know that I can't be perfect, and yet, somewhere in my mind, it feels as though everyone is expecting me to be. I be as good as I can to those around me, so good, that sometimes, I often forget to look out for myself. Or maybe that's a delusion and I'm really not that good. I can't tell anymore.

I know that I have severe trust issues. I know that is something I need to correct. I doubt myself on a constant basis because I can't even seem to trust myself.

It just feels to me like no one has ever really treated me the way I feel I should be treated with consideration to what I have done over and over for others. Life is certainly not fair. I'm not asking for it to be. I just think that I deserve better than what I've been given. All of the abuse and negativity is certainly not proper recompense for the kindness and forgiveness I have offered to the world.

I want keep my faith in human kind. I want to wake up and know that whoever he is loves me and has only eyes for me. But that's my impractical, idealistic side. In truth, no man could ever feel that way for just one woman, could he? I want to be the object of desire, the drive, the passion, the cause. I'd like to feel that I am wanted, needed, desired, and above all, loved.

I want with whom I can laugh with, live with, love with, and never for a moment doubt that those concepts are genuine, honest, and solid. I'm so ridiculously whimsical and unrealistic that I can't fathom why that's not going to happen for me. Not now, maybe never. I wish I had the ability to be more realistic - I truly do. It would make romance and relationships so much easier. I have a poet's soul, and a fish's mind, and there aren't many who would be willing to tolerate it.

I don't know why I get so caught up in the chase of this unobtainable love. I've lost so much faith in the prospect of ever obtaining it that I just get sad and stop believing. In faith, I've grown utterly cynical towards the prospects of romance that I come of as cold and callous when it's biting me in the face. Truly, I'd just like to play the leading lady in one of those everlasting stories. But then, I realize that I'd just be another lie fed to another little girl who sets her heart on something she can never have, because it does not exist.

I'm swimming upstream. I am a red-bellied salmon, yearning to spawn something so unique and precious. I just wish that there was another who understood, and would swim right beside me to help spawn such a thing.

An oldie, but goodie from the Maz Wisdom Vault

Right now, I’m basically a room divider when I want to be a brick wall. I don’t want it to be obvious how badly I’ve been hurt. I want to have the upper hand here, I want to look unaffected, unmoved, stronger, bolder, better than ever.

Maybe I’m too naive for my own good - scratch that, I am too naive for my own good. I can’t seem to help it. I am too compassionate and that’s such a downfall for me. I look at the good in every human. I try to understand everyone. I try to accept and forgive, unconditionally. I trust too easily. But then, I see myself get burned. I just don’t have the ability to do the things that others have done to me.

No matter how much I have been hurt by someone, no matter how abused or mistreated, I can’t wish ill on anyone, I can’t retaliate and hurt them back. I think one of my biggest problems is that I give bad people too many chances to prove that they don’t have to behave that way. I keep faith in humanity when humanity failed itself long, long ago. There aren’t many people out there like me anymore. I guess we’re a dying breed, and maybe that’s for the best.

We’re the most easily taken advantage of people, the ones that are too nice for our own good, the ones that will do just about anything for anyone, regardless of who they are. I wish in my heart that I had the ability to be callous and cold and incredibly selfish - and perhaps at times, I can be. But more often than not, I avoid this behavior because it’s not who I truly am. It is the best and worst quality that I possess. The best because of the individual it makes me, the worst because of how easily I allow myself to be abused to assist someone else’s needs.

Nice girls finish last doesn’t even cut it here.

I don’t know what more I can say. Frankly, this all leads back to the fact that men use me and I let them. I’ve tried harder as of late to not let it happen as much, but I fall into their trap every time. It’s absurd to me that I’ve been told by men that I have to prove I’m amazing before they’ll consider me as thus. How about this, you converse with me for ten minutes and see what you think.

I’m not your average female. I’m not even an average individual. If you can’t look beyond the fact that yes, I do have a pretty face, and a nice body, and several orifices and organs that would very well indeed be nice to play with -- but I have a brain and a heart the size of Texas, you aren’t worth my time. I don’t know why I constantly have to defend this about myself. Are you so blind that you can’t see how precious I am? I am, indeed, an anomaly of human creation. You should feel pretty good about yourself if you have someone like me on your side.

If I love you, you’ll never need to doubt it for a moment. If I love you, it’s a bit of a scary thing. It is pure and intense and boundless. It is to be treasured, not neglected. Yet when I love, it is discarded and pushed away faster than I can distribute it. Once you rid yourself of me, you dip your toes into the water and realize that this fish was the best you could ask for. You crawl back, but I won’t have you. As forgiving as I am, I don’t take lovers back. You lose me once, I’m lost forever. Too many have regretted this. I am a bit of a hot commodity.

I’m going to stop now, as I sincerely doubt anyone has read this in its entirety. If you have, my hat’s off to you. In this day and age, it’s difficult to get anyone to read a thing, which is disturbing, but a whole different tangent for me to rant about and I should stop myself now.

I’ll leave saying this:

I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. If you can’t take me as I am, then you aren’t a positive energy that I’d like to have in my life. It should be obvious that I’m to be treasured. After all, I’d never ask you to do anything to prove your worth to me. That’s absurd and inhumane. If I love you, I love you. If I like you, I like you. I would never ask you to change a thing about yourself (unless it’s potentially life threatening). I don’t understand why everyone has to be so demanding. We’re all human, after all. Why expect a demi-god as a lover when you can’t be the very same?

Snow Falls on the Hill - more bad prose

Spinning. Christ, I’ve never spun so fast. Turn the heat on. Shit, don’t have the money to do that. I’m not made out of money, you know. No. No, not at all. What is this place? Spinning. Please, just stop. Just. Stop.

Why are you looking at me this way? Don’t you know who I am?
”Fuck off. Leave me alone. I have nothing for you!”
I scream as he tugs the damp cap over his carnelian eyes.
“You walk on,” I growl, “The liquor store is just two blocks up. Go on, go! Get away!”
He stands and blinks at me, wiping the cold white dust from his face. I, in turn, shudder, blanketing myself in the frail sweater I wear. Should have worn a jacket – no, a coat. I needed a coat.

He licks his crusty lips and says nothing, just keeps holding out a gloved hand, enclosing a bottle of National Bohemian in the other.
“Say something, damn it! What are you, deaf?”
He just blinks at me and shakes his open hand.
“Keep your filthy hands away!” I shriek as he advances, “Away!”
Closer, closer. Oh, God, oh, God, what am I doing here?

I cry out and take off in the opposite direction. My arms flail in the falling winter flakes. I know he’s back there. He’s advancing. I keep running. They don’t call this Race Street for nothing.
“I just want my ticket! Oh, God, it’s all I want!” I scream, darting behind a vomit colored/covered dumpster.

Silence. Since when? That doesn’t happen here, are you kidding? Where are the sirens? Where are the gunshots? Where is the loud music and the breaking of glass? Where is the wailing of underage girls and their fake IDs being denied access to the bar with their middle-aged fuck-buddies? Where? Where? All I hear is this screaming!

I peer around the side of the dumpster, my left foot deep in a mound of blackened snow. He’s gone. Before me, I notice a great orange glow. It’s home. This is it. This is where I need to be! I sigh and place my right foot before me, but a cold set of filthy fingers in a dank black glove capture my wrist.
“Get away!” I shout at him again as white flakes smear my vision. I can still see him wiggling his matted paw below me.
“Can’t you see? I’m just as poor as you. Stop following me! Stop, stop, just stop!”

His lower lip quivers, though I can’t say if it’s the weather or the situation in which he and I are placed. He drops his eyes to my naked legs, then gawks at my ankles. I pause to take note of a thick scar just below his eye. He sees me staring and smiles, pointing and wagging his finger.
“Do you speak English? Hell, do you speak at all?”
Nothing. Just stands there, empty-headed while living empty-handed. I shake my head.
“No time for this. I’m out.”

I push past him, knocking him into a heap of gray slush. My legs wobble as I hurry through it. Swearing under my breath, I careen through waves of slush, snow, and ice, but I can see it ahead of me: the morphine-vomit lamplight of Cross Street. Just a few more steps, just a few more! Yes, I’ve almost reached you. My toes go numb and soon, the strength of my ankles disappears, too. I need to get back there.

I pass the gas station, but no human contact prevails. Where have they all gone? I’m crawling now, swimming now, through this mess. I just want to reach you, is all, why is that so hard to see? One more block, I swear. I promise I can make it, honey, don’t forget me. Shards of glass tickle my fingertips, penetrating my skin with such ease. Oh, I don’t have the time for this. Get up, girl, get up, you’ve got to stand on two feet!
“Can you help me out, honey?”
She’s huddling on a step with an empty pretzel jar, maybe a handful of change to her name. I stare at her, swaying side-to-side and tensing my muscles.
“You’ve got more money than I do, Peanut. Damn.” I reply, gripping a lamppost as my equilibrium fails.
“Dat ain’t true, honey. Look at ya. Look how nice you lookin’.”
She rattles her jar and looks up at me with wide ebony eyes, “Come on,” she insists, “gotta eat.”
I laugh so loudly.
“Me, too, Peanut. Me, too!”
The laughter grows as I skip up the slippery sidewalk. I’m closer now, closer than I’ve been all night.

The cold, cold night drips down my thighs and past my knees as I shiver below the orange light of the streets. I peer inside the Market, but see nothing, just blackness amidst the neon glow of signs within it. Bums line the brick walls and glass doors, sleeping on heaps of snow and trash and tattered advertisements. I tap them with my tormented toes, but not one of them moves. They seem to be dead, just like everything else here in December.
“Wake!” I cry in my stupor, “Get up and breathe. You can’t play this game forever!” I tap them, I kick them, I slap them, hell, it seems like I try to kill the lifeless bastards. But for what? They’ll just follow me around for the rest of my life, begging for money I can’t even give myself. Even in death, the beggars never cease to thrive.

A door opens just a few buildings up on the left. Yes, I’ve finally reached you! I nearly sink to bare knees on the hard, wet, asphalt. My hands and fingers tremble profusely as I make my way to the purple-bricked building. Crying out in elation, I dig deeply into the pockets of my tight, denim mini, hastily seeking out my right of passage – a piece of plastic, falsely marked.
“Yes!” I exclaim to myself as I pull it from the lint and debris of my skirt pocket. I wrap my fingers around the door handle and enter, pushing my poor excuse for breasts together, and smiling much too boldly. I open my mouth to speak as I hold out the piece of plastic. Yes, this is my ticket to entry!

“Out.” He says, not moving at all from his spot on the stool, not even glancing at my card. I freeze, blink, and wobble.
“What?” I question, mistaken.
“You can’t keep doing this. Out.”
I stand, catatonic, as the raucous of the band onstage blares right before my eyes and ears. What can I say? How can I defend this? I’ve waited so long for this show. How can he do this to me? How?

My lips tremble and I look into his black, black eyes.
“But I paid for this!” I cry, “I have the right to stay!” I stumble while standing and he catches me.
“You go home, girl. Don’t make me get outside help. You know what they do to kids like you in jail? You know how much it costs this place if they come in and catch us serving you? Huh, do you?”
My face contorts. My tears fall.
“But the band!”
He sighs heavily, “Go home, baby. I’m not losing my job over this. You got six months yet. I’ll bring you something when I come home.”
I punch him harshly in the arm and scowl,
“You better!”
I rush to the bar and steal three shots of unsupervised whiskey before falling out the door and tumbling back to my home on Fort and Patapsco.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning beneath a plethora of worthless blankets. Spinning. Christ, I’ve never spun so fast.
“Turn the heat on.” I whisper as he enters the dark, dark room.
“Shit, baby, don’t have the money for that. I’m not made out of money, you know.” He sneers as a case of National Bohemian slips from his filthy, gloved fingers onto the bedroom carpet.
“No. No, not at all,” I reply. He flicks on the light and my eyes flinch, “What is this place?”
He cracks open a bottle of beer for each of us, then another and another and another. All things blur.

I feel his raw, naked body in and on top of mine. Spinning.
“Please, just stop,” I wail, “Just stop.” He does not.
“Why are you looking at me this way? Don’t you know who I am?” He asks, pushing harder. I scream as he tugs the cap of hair upon my head, staring down into me with carnelian eyes.

Silence. Since when? That doesn’t happen here, are you kidding? Yes. Here are the sounds of sirens. Here are the gunshots. Here is the loud music and the breaking of glass. Yes, here is the wailing of an underage girl and her fake ID being denied access to the bar with her middle-aged fuck-buddy. Yes, here. Do you hear it?

A piece of prose.

We sit across from one another, oh-so-casually sipping our libations while our dangling legs tango beneath the table. I don't look at you, nor you at me; yet despite our visual aversion, there is nothing else on our minds. I want you terribly, and you know this. I turn my head, just so, and stare at you: male perfection in human form. My mind races, skimming over all the dirty little scenarios I'd like to play with you. You turn, feeling my eyes upon you, and look at me. We lock in a stare for a moment before you finish your beer, pick up my empty glass, and walk to the bar for thirds. I watch your every move, like a hunter. I am a lioness on the prowl for my dinner. I'll stop at nothing to have you.

Long and lean, you haven't much to offer in the way of meat, yet I'm hungry for you, regardless. You cock your foot against the bottom lefge of the bar, leaning over to place our next order. I cannot help but wonder what lies beneath your clothing. I lick my lower lip and imagine it for just a moment. You turn and walk back to the table, carefully placing the glasses as not to spill a drop. I lean my chin on my hand and firmly plant my elbow on the table, invading your personal space, just a hair.

You hop onto your stool and lift your glass. We toast. We drink. You turn away from me once again, seemingly afraid to look me in the eyes. You're terrified of what secrets lie behind these windows to my soul. I, on the other hand, cannot peel my eyes from you. I take a sip and look you over, making certain to permanently engrave your every marking in my mind. My temperature climbs, my pulse follows suit -- this is no alcoholic stimulation, merely the great desire I bear for you.

I place my glass onto the table with a heavy thump, startling you, thereby grabbing your attention. I smile and reach my hand across the table to stroke yours.
"So, what's the craziest thing you've done lately?" I ask. You look down at my hand on top of yours, pinkening in the cheeks, then turn your sweet eyes to mine.
"I haven't gotten to it yet," you say, ever so coyly. You slide your hand out from underneath mine and lock my frail wrist firmly in your grip. For the first time all night, our eyes lock and I can read your every thought. I know you want this just as much as I.

You rise, letting go of my wrist, with a quick stroke of your fingers against my skin before walking back to the bar. I watch you dig into your back pocket, produce a bill and rest it on the counter.
"Keep the change."
You shoot me a smouldering star, the kind that offsets a girl's nerves in the worst and best kind of way. I can feel myself growing increasingly aroused as you stand there, just looking at me. You tilt your head, motioning me to follow you, and I quickly oblige.

I rush over to you and you offer me your arm, which I gladly take in mine. We walk out of the bar into the chill, dark night. I look up at the sky, trying to make out the city's stars to no avail. You stroke my cheek and place a loose strand of my hair behind my ear.
"Shall we?" you ask, lips scarcely pressed against the skin of my ear. I shiver at the sound of your voice and simply nod. We make our way across the street and scramble into my apartment building. As soon as we enter the foyer, you pull me into your arms and kiss me. I lose all sense of control and return your fervency, twice as heavily. I drive you into the corner, pressing my body to yours. Your hands roam the contours of my slight frame and I shiver with elation, overwhelmed with my newly heightened arousal. I can feel the heat rising from your body, and yearn for nothing more than to feel your skin against mine.

The building door opens and we stop, frightened, and caught in our act. A woman looks at us in disgust and takes the elevator up to her apartment. My cheeks flush. You embrace me and kiss my forehead.
"Why don't we move this somewhere else?"
"Yes," I reply. You take my hand and lead me towards the staircase.
"Don't you want to take the elevator?" I ask.
"I prefer the exercise."

You push open the door to the stairwell, motioning me to enter first, and I oblige. You close the door behind us and, just as I begin to climb the stairs, you grab a hold of my hips, pulling me against you. Our lips meet and tongues clash in a heated battle. We are tugging at one another's garments in a backwards dance up the stairs. We make it to the next floor up and you throw me against the wall, biting my neck with fervor. I practically scream from the pain and pleasure, but just as I am about to do so, you cup your hand over my mouth. Our eyes meet and you tell me not to resist what is to come. I submit and lean back against the wall. You pull at my clothing, allowing your hands to roam what lies beneath it. Soon, so soon, you let your mouth take their place.

I shiver, biting my lip to keep silent as you pleasure me. My breathing staggers and I reach up the tail of your shirt, dragging my nails over your bare back. You groan softly and gaze up at me while your continue your foreplay. The look in your eyes maddens me, causing me to desire you all the more. You slide your hand up my skirt, teasing me with your velvet touch. My knees buckle, unable to handle the intensity of your actions. I run my hands through your hair, tugging it just right. I urge you to stop tormenting me and you look up at me, as if to inquire what was wrong. I pull your face to mine and kiss you vehemently. I can tolerate no more.

We resume our dance up the stairs, lips locked, bodies grinding. I giggle, excited to be in this situation with you. You grin and nibble my lower lip. I stifle a gasp as you push me down onto the stairs. I pull you down with me, then unzip your jacket to run my hands over your bare chest. Our eyes meet and we lay frozen in time. You embrace me and I you, a delicate smile blooming across your perfect lips. I trace the contour of your mouth with my finger and you bite me, exceuting a sublime combination of pleasure and pain. We kiss. I look at you and you at me.
"So, what's the craziest thing you've done lately?" I ask again, smirking. You nip my neck and grab a handful of my hair, forcing me to submit.
"I've only just begun it."

The Act of Like/Dislike

The truth is that I have attachment issues. I'll begin to spend time with someone, grow fond, and before you know it, I'm completely hooked. The next step is the abrupt abandonment. I'm apparently quite terrifying to potential prospects in the dating world because of my intense, emotional ties to whatever oh-so-lucky gentleman has my affinity in a given moment.

I've done my best as of late to put up the brick wall and to bury this behavior. I smother it with a pillow any time it attempts to surface. It's for my own good, isn't it? After all, I've played this game so many times and always lost because I've utilized the same tactics every time. Perhaps now is the time to change my strategy in order to win the great battle of Mon Sacre Coeur.

The thing is, though, that I really don't want to do so. I hate playing this game. I wish I could just look him right in the eye and say,
"I totally dig you. I want to see where this could go. I think we have potential," etc. But, I can't. So, instead, I play fight with him, bicker, tease, and pretend that I'm not that interested, but interested enough to pay him the time of day.

I act like I'm so cool and casual, like he's not the greatest thing since sliced bread, when the truth is that I think about him constantly, look forward to seeing him more than anything, and can't get his eyes, his lips, his touch out of my mind. This is so stupid.

I don't really want to fall in love again. I wanted to relax and tone down my overflowing emotions. Learn how to manage myself before introducing a man into the mix again. But I can't stop it. It's too late. I'm growing fond, and soon enough, I'll be hooked. I think maybe we're in the same boat, but I'm so afraid to have a serious conversation with him because everything is so fun and fresh between us. The serious conversation ruins everything. I need to just enjoy what's going on and wait for him to bring it up.

Oh, well. What's a foolish girl to do?

Where has simplicity gone?

I'm sitting here looking at photos and compositions from the past, recalling the good old days, when life seemed free and beautiful. I remember now how I always had something to look forward to, even if it took a week's worth of hell to get to it. Where did it all go? What have we all become?

I remember sitting in diners, chain smoking, coffee sipping, playing Scrabble until the wee hours of the morning. There was always whiskey, there was always good music, there were always good friends. We took daytrips out of Maryland. We went to concerts on the regular. We did photoshoots in the middle of nowhere. We were truly living.

What's happened to these days when the simplest of pleasures are no more? Have we grown apart and changed so much from those times? What's taken the passion and the drive out of us? I sit here looking through it all, wishing for times lost to be returned once again.

I long to be a nighthawk at the diner, to journey to Harper's Ferry or Alexandria just because we can, to laugh and smile and dance to the beat of life. I want these things back.

Life was so simple and so satisfying with the smallest of things. Perhaps now is the time to grab it by the horns and rebuild what we've lost. What better time than now?

Join me!

A trivial pursuit?

Pursuit. It's such a simple concept. You know, cat chasing mouse, hunter versus hunted, but what about women and men? Not so simple of a concept anymore, is it? Not for me.

How can we tell if it is justified to be the hunter? Should we simply go after our potential prey, thereby risking awkward situations and a slight loss in pride? At present, I am considering the role of the hunter, wondering if I should step into the shoes. At the same time, however, I wouldn't want to risk everything on the line - not only my pride, but the friendship that has accumulated for the past few months.

In the same vein, I feel a tension between the two of us - an attraction that I believe to be real. It seems that perhaps both of us are afraid to jump into the role of the hunter. I also cannot tell if I am merely an object of lust instead of potential prey. In most cases, I'm just the object and not a prize. I have no idea if I am being pursued, or if the only conquest with me in mind is in the bedroom.

But, men, know you this; I would appreciate a very obvious signal either way. If all you seek is physical, please just tell me so. Don't torment my mind more so than it has already been tormented. If I'm planning on sleeping with you, I'll sleep with you, but I'd greatly appreciate knowing ahead of time instead of falling in love with you only to be broken weeks later after you're through toying with me. Thanks.

And gentlemen, if there are any hunters out there, those hunters under the payroll of Cupid [and not of Cassanova], for the love of God, come forward. I'm waiting for you. I'm tired of games. I'm tired of playing the field. So, please, step up to the plate so we can end this game of trivial pursuit.

Bliss for the broken

Currently, my mind is swimming. I've been sitting here just trying to think of how I want to word everything I'm feeling. It's a bit funny. I sit here with so much emotion and so much passion inside of me, and yet, when it comes to writing it down, I just don't find words suited to describe it. Kind of ethereal in a way. Anyone else get like that?

I just feel this wave over me. Constantly coming and knocking into me, forcing me to sink to my knees. I'd like to attribute it to the music I'm listening to, but I think that can only be just an attribute to how I got the way I'm feeling.

It's as though I'm in limbo, I suppose. I can't quite tell what I feel, but I'm in between two feelings that are separated by entirely different plains promising entirely different things. Maybe there is no promise at all, just the thought of it.

I woke up this morning, warm and tingling. It was as though a spirit had filled me with strange euphoria - strange, but pleasant, and horribly intoxicating. I still feel it, this kind of warm, supernatural complacency. I can't quite explain it, but I want more. I want to feel it and know it is real. I want validation in it.

It's a bit of a curse being a hopeless romantic, because, in all fairness, finding someone who truly exists and functions in a manner that so many famous pairs of lovers do is a bit of an anomaly. Even so, I can't help but crave it. I keep thinking I'm getting closer to finding my match, but every time I do, something comes and destroys it, or it was never real to begin with. It's so disheartening when you would throw down everything you have for love and for that opportunity to love someone so fully, and no one is there to do the same for you.

That sometimes makes me want to give up. And often, I deny the fact that I desire to have something as thus. In truth, however, I would give everything I had for the sake of obtaining it. You may think that that's a little sad and pathetic, but what should I care of how you feel? You have never been me and never will be, so who are you to judge the thoughts and feelings of another?

Sometimes, I yearn to be practical. I wish I didn't have such a ridiculous obsession with love. But it would be nice, every now and again, to know that someone out there thinks of me and feels for me just as I do for him. To share something like that is miraculous and beautiful. I'll keep waiting. I'll keep faith. One day, if I'm lucky, it will come to me and it won't leave.