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…
Why don’t we trust our bodies? What is so wrong in just listening for once? Listen to the way the rhythm decreases. Listen to the body and how it begs for freedom. Are you free? Do you feel free in this? I think this has been something I’ve been struggling with for a while. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself enough to be ok with decisions when it comes to the matters of the heart. So I make mistakes. And I smile and drift into this facade that somehow, magically things will work themselves out. That the universe understands what’s really needed and what’s really meant for me and somehow, someway I will receive what is coming my way. But, how? If the fear is bigger than the belief, what gets accomplished? What’s the deciding factor that now is the time to move? Are you really free? Every bit of my being says no but my mind is fixated on making lemonade out of apples. Everything says no. But I continue on. And I keep fighting. I keep going as if I have something to prove. As if I am to prove my body wrong. To show that I am capable of suppressing and repressing and formatting and editing myself to fit the likes of another. To finally show that I,too, can be a soft woman of love and submit easily to a man who may not be enough for me. I can lie down and quiet myself for love. I am proving this to my body so that I can move forward with the knowledge that I am able to love monogamously. There is ability in my being to give unselfishly and diminish parts of myself for stability. For security. In the name of a progressing relationship, I am here ready to sacrifice essentials of my being for your love. For you, because I am tired of running around in circles looking for a love that probably doesn’t exist. A love where compatibility and stability coexist as a unification of a passionately intense loving relationship. And I say all that to say…. I’m not even happy. And I have to wonder, why am I even fighting myself?
I just love writing. I love to write about love making. I love to write about love. Struggles. Faith. Patience. Relationships. Affairs. Lovers. The rise and the fall of life and love. There’s so much to learn through words. Through experiences. I write to live. I write to love. I write for passion and romance. I write for him. I write for me. I write to always remember. I write to never forget. I write to document. I write to feel. I write to hurt. I just write. I just love writing. It’s everything to me. It’s an escape. It’s a fantasy. It’s realities. It’s a life outside of my own but it’s still mine. I write to make you feel. I hope I make you feel. Something. Anything. I write to reach. I write teach. I’m a writer. And I am so in love with the art of words.