At Least

Back in Utah and single still and curious as ever and unaligned... I've been trying to write for a while now.

What is it this time, you ask?  It's Hunter.  It's Avery Taylor.  It's Jesus.  It's finding Katrina and then saying goodbye to Katrina, and then sitting at home a lot.  It's my new roommates.  It's Brittni having a boyfriend and not wanting to hang out with me all the time like we did in 7th grade, and also me not wanting to hang out all the time like we did in 7th grade.  It's not having any new ideas and being okay with not making movies and no female forum speakers and a lot of people being smarter than me and forgetting who directed Being John Malkovich and looking stupid in front of him for it. 

I've gotten caught up in another high school drama and it makes life all sparkly and exotic and I'm wondering how long it's going to last.  I've almost shed my bumbling and achingly dull 16 year old persona and am embracing being the bumbling and insipid 20 year old that I guess I always knew I was.  Still tripping over my drooping socks and telling my palms not to sweat, but I at least have a bag with foxes on it and that's cool sometimes.  

No, I haven't changed much.  

And yet I'm so different that I don't even know what to say about myself anymore.  I don't recognize myself.  I don't sing very often.  

I do, however, know a lot of fun facts about Disney World, though.  So there's that.

But here's the deal: things are happening in a way that is desirable and confusing and upsetting and HORRIBLE and WONDERFUL and I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING and it feels good to have something so exciting again.  It's glamorous, and we are glamorous, and we are giggly and we are secretive and we are fools for it.  We are damn fools and I'm so incredibly content with it all.  And I weep for the day when it ends, as we all know it will.  

But until then, I am going to let my heart race a little bit and I'm going to be late to class and I'm going to write 17 draft texts before sending the "right" one and I'm going to analyze conversations with Avery and hate myself because it feels good to be passionate and it feels wrong to run away.

I'm done running away from myself.

I guess I don't have much else to say now besides this: I've made a string of good decisions and one bad one and my ligaments are tearing and I'm happy.

At least I have that.

Karma Was Here

Give me something I can put my faith in.

Give me a distraction.

Give me attention.

I'm going to be so different.  I will be better, stronger, more grown up.  Maybe a better friend.  And a better lover.  Or a better fighter.  I will be brave.  I will be confident.  I will.

Night after night and day after day, I look to the wrong person when I loose my way.

Oh you are a little girl.  Pretending to be things you see.  Asking what things you can take.  Well you'll scream and you'll fight with it, fake and desire for it, but you will never ever be happy.

Give me something I can feel right about.

Give me a reason to grow old.

Give me pride in myself and for the things that I have done.

But take away the shame and take away the fear.  And take away the person I don't want to be anymore.  And take away my hands and my eyes, so I can learn to rely on God.

Give me a reason to come back.

I'm starting to forget why.

The Very Thought Insults Me

It's only on the especially bad days that I think of you and all that you stand for.  When things are going real good, I can barely recall what color your skin is.  And even when the room is white and bare, and we are the only inhabitants, I still find it hard to see you.  You're like the wrong side of the moon, the side that's always facing out into the rest of the universe.  And I understand your wistful way of constantly seeking out a bigger something, but I want you to turn around so I can remember the little things about your face that I've forgotten.  Like your broken smile and your quiet eyes.  I just want you to understand me like I long to understand you.

Like the way I always sing along when I know the words.  And how I wear multiple layers of clothing even in the summer.  And how my food can never touch, unless I think it'll taste better that way.  You should know my middle name.  Not my real one, but the one I made up in 5th grade and had everyone believe was my middle name for 6 years.  You should know the spot in my backyard where I go to sleep when my parents are fighting.  And the place where that bird fell after being shot by my grandpa.  

What I'm trying to say is that I know I don't look like love to you.  I don't think I'm working to become that either.  What I am is everything you've scolded me for, and it hurts that you don't even blame yourself.  I'm unresponsive, and passive aggressive.  I'm in desperate need of therapy.  And I'm in desperate need of concrete.  Something solid to lay down on, because I'm tired of these feathers and pillows, like the strangers that say, "Oh, I pity you so."  Well, I don't need your pity.  Please, pick it up off the floor.

I'm ready to leave you, darling.  But I've still got some things to take care of.  I've still got some things to say to you.  

But not now, and not out loud.