There are some mornings when i wake up and I’m just like blah. What more can I complain about today before 10? What else must I nitpick at to prove that everything is wrong? I’m tryna isolate myself but it’s hard when you got other people who need to vent and deal with their problems too. It’s Saturday morning and I’m listening to the birds chirp at my window. I don’t like waking up feeling like this, feeling like I’m ready for the world to end. I am at peace with the world ending. I read the news every morning. Deal with some heartbreaking gruesome shit everyday. Listen to the same stories everyday. Shed tears almost every day in disbelief that I wasn’t the only one growing up with a monster under my bed. The problem is I don’t know what to do or how to fully process all this information. It just sits there. Waiting. The longer it sits there, the heavier it becomes and the more weight i have to carry once i figure out what to do. I would like to runaway. I was thinking Miami today but I rather not. The drive, the money and it’s no guarantee that it will make me feel better. I have a paper still to do and I am beyond myself at this point. Yesterday I barely spoke at work. I barely wanted to talk. Really felt no urgency to do anything but sulk and wallow in despair. What despair? The despair of never finding an end to what we are constantly facing.
But here’s an idea… maybe try making the best of your situations? How about that? Or, how about to accepting the shit and keep it moving? Or, even better, stop reading the gotdamn news, get you a job in retail and sell some clothes and make people look somewhat decent.
All good ideas but I rather wallow in my despair. It just feels good on a Saturday morning with the sun shining right through my window and the birds are chirping.
It feels good to wake up sad. Makes one question everything and makes living just that much more fascinating.
How are you navigating through your life’s trials and tribulations my dear?
Ive been writing and then I’ve been stopping. Stopping because I start to question what I’m writing instead of just feeling the words. So I’ve gotten scared to share and just been keeping it to myself. I’ve been writing to reach someone, anyone but I don’t feel that I am. I don’t feel that my words are making sense and I am becoming overtly critical of my own art form. I need to find a way to unblock and create again. Where i feel comfortable and confident and secure in myself that I am ok with what I am creating. It’s a struggle. But I know exactly what I need and there is no other way for me to achieve it other than to leave my situations behind and be free. Lately it’s just been a routine effort in my part to keep my head above water. Like I’m not even trying to survive really, I’m just doing what’s necessary to make it seem that I am. There’s feelings of suffocation and deprivation and loneliness and just everything that shouldn’t be existing in my presence is just here and staying past their welcome. Maybe that’s where I screwed up? Once you acknowledge the feelings, you know you have to do something, right? That’s why I love denial. I can be anyone and feel anyway I want without ever having to re-examine the truth and what’s in front of me. How long does this last usually? Well there are people who are 50+ that seem to be working out just fine in my opinion. I can muster up another 22 yrs of this role.
But the point of the matter is I’m blocked. I’m backed up. I’m still pushing myself to write even though I suck. I have books and empty wine glasses all over the floor of my bedroom. Lolita has taken a fuckin turn for the worst and quite frankly, as sick as this book is, I am quite intrigued at how delicately written this story is. Nietzsche is still in the corner because I ain’t ready to be dealing with his ass and Anais, well I pick her up when I begin to feel hopeless in my situation. Hopeless being used for a more delicate term than bored.
I’ll keep writing. That much I will do. Everything else, well, I’ll just let it fall and wherever it lands I’ll deal with it later.
I live two lives when I think of you. So I try not to relive moments, as asked. It’s torturous to live this way. To love and to lust. If the two worlds would combine I could stop beating myself up over it. To find the love and passion I want, is to begin the search all over again. We always think we have the time. Most of the time when we speak you think I’m only speaking of you, but I share my secrets too. There’s more to me than just wanting. I’m a bit empty at the moment and when I try to possibly be rejuvenated, there’s always something. I live in two worlds and I am tired. My body quivers at the memory of your lips, how do I move on from all of this? I want to create new memories with a lover I can have for more than just a moment. More than just night. I want a greater lover. The greatest lover, the one I write about who makes me feel more than just alive and sexy. I want the lover that makes me feel like home, again.
We are becoming reckless. And careless. Gifts. Morning kisses. Missed punctuations. What are we doing? How are we going to explain this? We knew this should’ve been us from the beginning. Why are we always so scared to ask for all that we want? This is no longer about just chemistry, no, this is about the recklessness in our actions. How terrible can two lovers be when nobody wants to leave?
The beauty of our relationships not only lie in the mistakes we make but in the way we handle the endings/beginnings. At least, I think so. When I look at them I remember why I believe so much in love and life. When I look at them I am remembering what love looks like, what love is and who love is. What pushes me and is what pushes them farther away from each other. So many parts of us wither away from the lack of understanding, the lack of compassion, the lack of foundation. I’ll always be the first to say I really don’t know much about shit, but, I do know many are living their lives as fools because holding on is always easier than letting go. Because when we let go, then what? What happens next? Is there a next? It’s the unknown that we all struggle with, all of us. But what fun is living life as a fool when you could lie your burdens down and be free? There should never be expectations when it comes to human behavior. Never. I think when it comes to teaching acceptance as a virtue, keeping in mind that fucked up shit happens, and how you move forward is your graduating ceremony. Whenever I look at them I am reminded of my favorite sci-fi movie “what dreams may come”. The movie of a man that loses his kids one day and dies the next day, only to have his wife commit suicide. But he speaks/lives through her paintings. He goes from heaven (because suicides go to hell, according to this movie) to save her from an eternity of hell but she doesn’t recognize him. It’s not until he begins to lose his mind that she begins to remember him. But it’s too late, his risked paradise to be by her side because he believed they were soulmates. In the end, he wakes up back in paradise with her next to him, he was brave enough to risk it all because he believed in their love. Do you believe in soulmates? I never did until I began to really watch them, watch them grow, watch them create and save each other over and over again. All the ways they would risk paradise for each other, I watched them become. Their eyes would light up and I’ve watched her speak life into him so many times, in so many ways. The revival of his spirit. The beauty in her being. The beginning of their love is always worth writing about. Their ending has been their best performance. With every great story, even the greatest formation of well-rounded, thorough characters things happen. Love fades and changes and regresses and hurts and sometimes love does the unthinkable. My parents are a modern day tragedy. Soulmates. Two fools living in a world without each other. Whenever I look at them I am reminded why “what’s next” should be the core of my marriage&family practice, because, what is next now that the hurts there. “What’s next” is the pillar to healing. Do we live this life alone or, should we attempt to be brave one last time and ask each other “what’s next”?
Book recommendation: Tiny beautiful things by Cheryl Strayed.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a book open me up. I feel excited to get home, pour me a glass of wine and read this book. I’m so thankful for the recommendation; it was worth the $16 that I paid yesterday at the bookstore. There’s a giddiness sitting at the core of me and I can’t get enough of this book. That’s what good writing does to you. it opens you up. It makes you feel. Keeps the pages turning and forces the mind to start working and finding new ways to express one’s self. It’s finding a new language of love amidst beige colored pages. It is a new language every time you discover a remarkable writer, a well-defined-true-to their-craft writer. I am at work counting down the hours until I can go home and sit on the couch and read. This book is giving me something to look forward to and its teaching me. A good book leaves you walking away with new wisdom. It’s a new outlook. A new perspective on the way we view the world. Tiny beautiful things. It’s wonderful what can be discovered in the palm of your hands, don’t you think?
If I’m not sad enough, it never taste as delicious. The amount of sadness equates to the amount of love I need to put into my soup. This recipe came from a Pinterest page about a year or so ago. I was working long hours at the hospital and not tending to myself. Working to live and living to work. The mundane routine of the psychotic in a plain world. My world had nothing. Sadness and desperation to make sure I was able to take care of the roof over my head. The world was much simpler than as opposed to now. Simpler in the sense I had nothing to motivate me to want more. I learned that self love comes in many forms. I had only focused on selfies at that time for validation from a world that could careless about my dire need for survival. Self love came to me in the form of a kitchen, where I learned how to nourish myself the right way. I learned how to tend to myself, my needs, my emotional needs. I was careful in the way I cleaned vegetables and chicken. Tenderness playing a key role in being mindful of the cleansing. No need to rush. Be thorough and be gentle. I paid attention to the flavors against my tongue. I learned that love is created in the kitchen. And there’s nothing better than making sure you take care of love. This recipe came out perfect the first time. Coconut milk and red curry perfection. I mean, I even accidentally added in coconut cream and that mixture of sweet and spicy became everything to my tastebuds. And I learned that sometimes when you think you messed up, you find out new ways to improve yourself and your dish. The discovery in the kitchen helped better me when I lost myself on days where gray skies were never ending. Some days I just can’t manage the sadness. I cry and cry and cry some more, never able to pinpoint where all the confusion comes from. I credit my hormones most of the time. But making this soup makes me remember to center myself and put myself first. There are so many ways we continuously forget about ourselves through work, relationships and school, the back burner becomes a comfort zone and what’s comfortable is rarely ever changed. If it works, why fix it? But time is a teacher and later the body realizes everything ain’t meant to be carried. So the soup remains as a reminder for me, to take care of myself even on days when I would rather not. When I had nothing to push me forward, I learned that in the kitchen we can create magic and find something worth savoring…