i waited around to talk to him. but i had to leave so i wasn’t late for class.
he left; he went to scotland for a while, and years later he showed up at my place of work.
we’re friends now, but he still doesn’t know… and sometimes i still convince myself that i don’t feel the same.
The night before I left for a new city in a new country I agreed to meet him a hour before my boat, knowing he would always be late and begging form him to remain a creature of habit, just so I wouldn’t really have to tell him. He still is.
There was someone, once, but then I realized that all he really wanted to do was set me on fire. Even so, sometimes I still wonder what might have happened if I’d said something before he disappeared.
all my grandiose plans came to nothing. I was to travel, to tell him, to give him a chance to love me, though we will never share a continent again. And now I’m running away from my last chance. I’m a coward.
But what if he never wanted it in the first place?
I actually have quite a few for him, about how he hurt me once. He’s been making up for it ever since though, and I still don’t think he’s quite ready to hear my confessions. One day, when we’re older, I’ll give him my journal.
‘Open the door, and look inside,
It’s as you left it, but not quite right.
The fading sense says something’s wrong.
Someone has been here, someone has gone…
Nature trails, where she leads
Like a pet at her feet,
Don’t be sad, you’ll be set free tomorrow…’
he left her just enough / so she could never find him
… interesting, this has more than one possible interpretation.
1. [left her just enough]: He went away, physically, but left behind enough of his possessions (physical and/or emotional) to prevent her from going out and finding him.
2. [left her] just enough: He remained there physically, but he became distant emotionally, thus “leaving her” to a certain degree, just enough that she could never fully find out who he was.
Not sure which makes more sense, if either makes sense at all… or if there’s a third interpretation that’s more logical.
I think I’ve always told people things.. confessed.. told them I liked them before I even really began to. (Destroyed things before they could happen). …I live in fear of this sort of thing happening, so I confess, I say the things.
It seems to backfire sometimes anyway. But at least now I’m finding people who maybe appreciate me for it.
However some people do not know the idea of privacy.
Nor do they know the nuances, the heart, the soul of my reveries.
Do I let these things shackle my need, my longing for self-communion?
No. I veered away from it for far too long. I ignored my muse for far too long, I am no longer sure it’s still willing to accompany me in this journey and more.
Writing’s the only avenue thru which I can effectively process my thoughts, my emotions.. the budding feelings, the vapid confusion.
I’ve long known that it’s my most effective line to the One Beyond.
I write my thoughts, my feelings, my being when i need to draw closer within, to the seat of my soul. That’s where I get the answers, that’s where i get the peace… Well then, that’s where I should go.
I’ve long sacrificed this mode of soliloquy on account of privacy.
Out of fear? Maybe. Maybe I kept the self-confessions even from myself because I wanted to protect the things I valued.
… and maybe that very same motivation is what has convinced me to be free to write again.
if i am the one who draws all these bad characters in, then i write – be free of me.
story of my life. get out of my head!
i waited around to talk to him. but i had to leave so i wasn’t late for class.
he left; he went to scotland for a while, and years later he showed up at my place of work.
we’re friends now, but he still doesn’t know… and sometimes i still convince myself that i don’t feel the same.
i scribble teeny tiny letters and leave them in odd places.
on napkins in bars.
on transfers in buses.
on packets of splenda in the overpriced airport coffee shops.
(but i still can’t figure out who they’re for)
I hide things, too. I wonder who finds the trail back.
The night before I left for a new city in a new country I agreed to meet him a hour before my boat, knowing he would always be late and begging form him to remain a creature of habit, just so I wouldn’t really have to tell him. He still is.
We’ve been lying to ourselves for months, maybe even years. I’m not sure what the truth is anymore.
There was someone, once, but then I realized that all he really wanted to do was set me on fire. Even so, sometimes I still wonder what might have happened if I’d said something before he disappeared.
all my grandiose plans came to nothing. I was to travel, to tell him, to give him a chance to love me, though we will never share a continent again. And now I’m running away from my last chance. I’m a coward.
But what if he never wanted it in the first place?
Or worse yet, what if he did?
I did this for 2 years.
Just last night I told him everything. I still don’t know that it changed anything. I don’t think it did.
I actually have quite a few for him, about how he hurt me once. He’s been making up for it ever since though, and I still don’t think he’s quite ready to hear my confessions. One day, when we’re older, I’ll give him my journal.
For last one year, our eyes will meet for a moment everyday and then we will move on. And today when I’m not there I think I should have told her.
Sometimes I wonder, if he is doing the same thing to me or if Im deluding myself.
I don’t think I’ve ever read anything more accurate.
so why didn’t I tell? I needed a hint.
I can only drop hints; my mind moves too quickly to allow my mouth to finish speaking. I think her infinite patience ran out.
Cue up ‘Nature Trails’ (ComSat Angels)…
‘Open the door, and look inside,
It’s as you left it, but not quite right.
The fading sense says something’s wrong.
Someone has been here, someone has gone…
Nature trails, where she leads
Like a pet at her feet,
Don’t be sad, you’ll be set free tomorrow…’
he left her just enough / so she could never find him
… interesting, this has more than one possible interpretation.
1. [left her just enough]: He went away, physically, but left behind enough of his possessions (physical and/or emotional) to prevent her from going out and finding him.
2. [left her] just enough: He remained there physically, but he became distant emotionally, thus “leaving her” to a certain degree, just enough that she could never fully find out who he was.
Not sure which makes more sense, if either makes sense at all… or if there’s a third interpretation that’s more logical.
The confessions go right over my head. It seems I only understand the almost-confessions at times.
Say, or do not say. There is no hint.
What is a “hint” to one person is a meaningless remark to another.
That’s true, and often a person hides behind that tiny bit of deniability.
I think I’ve always told people things.. confessed.. told them I liked them before I even really began to. (Destroyed things before they could happen). …I live in fear of this sort of thing happening, so I confess, I say the things.
It seems to backfire sometimes anyway. But at least now I’m finding people who maybe appreciate me for it.
I only do this in my soliloquy.
However some people do not know the idea of privacy.
Nor do they know the nuances, the heart, the soul of my reveries.
Do I let these things shackle my need, my longing for self-communion?
No. I veered away from it for far too long. I ignored my muse for far too long, I am no longer sure it’s still willing to accompany me in this journey and more.
Writing’s the only avenue thru which I can effectively process my thoughts, my emotions.. the budding feelings, the vapid confusion.
I’ve long known that it’s my most effective line to the One Beyond.
I write my thoughts, my feelings, my being when i need to draw closer within, to the seat of my soul. That’s where I get the answers, that’s where i get the peace… Well then, that’s where I should go.
I’ve long sacrificed this mode of soliloquy on account of privacy.
Out of fear? Maybe. Maybe I kept the self-confessions even from myself because I wanted to protect the things I valued.
… and maybe that very same motivation is what has convinced me to be free to write again.
if i am the one who draws all these bad characters in, then i write – be free of me.