One Thousand, Eight Hundred, and Twenty Five Days…and then some.

Return often and take me,

Beloved sensation, return and take me–

When memory of the body awakens,

And old desire again runs through the blood;

When the lips and skin remember,

And the hands feel as if they touch again.

C.P. Cavafy

Return; 1709

It has been five years, perhaps more, since I first learned to love you. That is, over sixty months, two hundred and sixty weeks, and even more days since I discovered my capacity to love.

It has not been easy, it has not been sweet, nor neat, nor clean. Five years of carrying two. Two hundred and sixty weeks of refusing to choke, or crumble. All for you to destroy each year’s work, each month’s toil, each week’s sweat, each day’s trudge, each night’s un-poured tears with fears, jests, and indifference? Silly games, and adolescent angst?

By now, I should be angry; I should be hurt, or upset, or weary, but I have known weariness, and worn hurt, and been the face of anger for too long to feel those now. In their place is a pleasant apathy. One that I will perhaps never tell you of, because a part of me does still care about the things that weigh you down at nights, but these are the things that change a person. They craft a glass wall that would bring pleasure to even the most blinded glassblower’s eyes…a hazy, translucent wall–dyed crimson at its centre, swirling a kaleidoscope of blues, and blacks beyond that crimson, until there is nothing but the glistening sparkle of crystal–with only hints of yellow forming a silver-lining along its uneven, but smooth surface.

You are not to blame. Well, not entirely. There is me. There is the 17 year old boy who taught a five year old things she should not know. A mother whose best skill was not asking questions she did not want the answers to. Friends who did not have the capacity to return what they could not understand. And perhaps, even others.

You see, it is not that I am angry, or hateful. Not even that I am petty, and strangely enough, not that I do not understand why you are, the way you are, or that I do not love you. I simply. Just no longer. Care.

Sigh. Such a waste of a pretty quote.

Do not return to me.


There are limits.

Note: To be read with a pinch of salt, and probably a few other seasonings. There is such a thing as venting. 🙂

On Endings.

What has often bothered me, is not the ending of things, but the ease with which I’ve seen perfectly beautiful journeys destroyed for the littlest of things. It is the loss of what should have been, could have been, and now will never be. And the saddest part of it all, is that you never notice until that time has gone. Perhaps it is why I’ve always done my best to glue things back together again, but release is the sweetest peace, in and of itself.

I Will Not

I am not going to write another post about you. About how much I loved you, but how I afraid I was that I did not love you enough. I will not confess all the things you did that made me so angry I wanted to break things, or that made me so happy I wanted to dance. Instead, I’ll say things like “I am so scared of my role in my new job; the anxiety that comes from knowing that there is much that can go wrong, and that the responsibility is all mine; the insecurity of not knowing if anything I am doing is just right, or if everything I’ve done is so wrong.” I’ll talk about how when I’m nervous, or upset, or if something has triggered me, I’ll tug on my ear, and bite my nails. I’ll even throw in a tidbit about how much I love to take the band off my hair, and play with the hard, kinky spirals  my mother and I once spent so many years straightening. On occasion, I may talk about how angry I was when I felt that I’d been there for the people I cared about, but how it felt like I could never turn to them the year I let everything go, and crashed. Maybe, I’ll even bring up the “dark” year. The one in which rolling out of bed made me want to cry for the futility of it all. Or perhaps, I’ll go a step further, and confess that–when the pain went away, and all I felt was numbness–I wanted to hurt me. I needed to hurt me. Just to be sure I was still alive. That I was still capable of feeling something. Even if it was almost the blade of a knife I’d held over the flames on my stove. What do I know, is that I will not. I will not write another ridiculous post about frustration and anger; disappointments and expectations; forgiveness and uncertainty; love and understanding; that features you, because I don’t think you ever truly did anything to deserve it. So no, I will not write another post for you. And if on a whim, I catch one verse, one line, one lyric, one poetic phrase flittering out my fingers, I will turn away from it. And, if you ever truly knew me, you’d know, forgetting an iota of what I’ve written, letting go when the words are calling, is one of the hardest things for me to do.

K.N.O.W. Pour le quatorze janvier.

(A promise I reneged on because it stymied my creative process. Well then. -_-)