Life in Standing

So many people. . . I remember most of their names still- the ones left behind. I remember the first person I new as a friend- the only person I can ever remember from my early childhood that I called my friend. I don't remember his name. I don't really even remember him, just a single memory of shouting out across the grocery store to him as I was being lead away by my oldest brother.

I remember one of my first play dates. I was too young to talk, and was barely getting around on my own two legs. I remember we played with legos- or probably mega blocks. Her name escapes me, but I remember her blonde curls and blue eyes. I don't recall ever seeing her again.

My brothers became my playmates. My friends became the trees. My best friend became the sky, because it never changed. No matter where I moved to or how many people were left to the past there would always be a friendly tree, and there would always be the sky.

Everything became simpler that way. People weren't there to be cared about they were curiousities to be observed. They began to fall into categories. Based on their looks, or based on their natures, everyone I met became classified and categorized. Certain looks began to correspond with certain attitudes, certain qualities one might have began to become apparent to me upon site. I could tell things about a person that they themselves could hardly realize, I could tell the ones worth meeting, and the ones better to stay away from. I was never wrong.

I never cared for anyone of certain types. They never warranted it. That one was always going to disappoint, and this one was always going to quit, while so many just don't have a clue about anything- they are hardly worth considering. I began to wonder if I would ever name another human my friend. But as life grew older and circles became more specific people became more interesting, and new qualities began to manifest; qualities that became respectable, or sympathetic. The humans had more depth- I had more depth. Soon I began to name friends along my way through life. No longer were they chosen by circumstance. Instead, they were now chosen by qualities admired. I chose the people I liked, and discarded the rest.

I chose to surround myself with surface qualities like courage, beauty, intelligence, and quirks. These I believed I could either absorb or dominate them. They gave me a place and identity, but none of it was mine. I couldn't absorb the courage of another just by standing beside them as they rebelled. The beauty and intelligence of others simply made me feel dull and plain. And the quirkiness of others merely accented my own social failings, drawing them not into an endearing light but into awkward and painful revelation. I'm withdrawn.

It would be a decade before I try to have friends again. In all that time I would draw near to only a few. Amanda was a charm I carried in my heart for some time. I never knew her well enough to call her friend, but well enough to love her. But love is a choice. I saw something in her that I wanted in my life, something I lacked. It helped me through some of my darkest times knowing that there was something out there that was worth the fighting, worth living for- even if I'd never see it again in any one.

Six years later I called some one my friend. That was wishful thinking. A year later I called some one else my love. That too would pass. Two years later I had more friends that I ever imagined I would. They've all but evaporated since then. Friends based on common circumstances are bound to fade as one's circumstances change. I have no illusions or ill feelings about that. I just wish that in my journey towards expression I could find some consistency to keep me grounded. But then again, if my ideas about friendship where never tested I would never have had some of my most precious moments in life, nor would I have had my most painful.

I wrote a song in May (26, 2012)

I've tried to force the feeling, but the feelings didn't come.
Still you mean the world to me, and I wish you were the one.
But you couldn't know, you couldn't see, how hard I tried to make it you and me; you didn't know. . .

-and I know how much I've hurt you. I can never take it back.
I never thought that I'd desert. You deserve much more than that.
-and I didn't know, about what I'd see; the stranger looking through the mirror at me- some one I don't know. . .

So I don't try to give you any reasons, 'cause nothing seems to measure up.
-and I'd only disappoint you with possible excuses I'd make up.

I didn't know how much I'd miss you; and all the questions left behind.
Have you found what you've been searching for: what I just can't seem to find.
I had it in my hands- let it slip away. Now it's lost three thousand miles away. I had it in my hands.

I don't try to give you any reasons; 'cause nothing's gonna make it up.
-and you could only disappoint me, with all of my excuses you'd bring up.

a response, and other words over dew... (about bubbles)

We all live in a bubble. Obviously not the same one. We all live in our own bubble. Generally speaking, we all see ourselves as we'd like to be rather than we are. I loved a girl once, a long time ago, but she never would believe it because I acted 'poorly'- and by poorly I mean abhorrently selfish, dishonest, and just a bastard. I regret it because I should. I remember that regret from time to time, not because I enjoy it, and not because I want to feel down on myself; but I remember it because I never want to be that way again. I don't trivialize it saying it wasn't meant to be, or that the time just wasn't right. Nope. I fucked it up. I hurt some one who never did anything to me. I took advantage of the good nature of some one who was willing to save me. I treated her like garbage and ruined our friendship. She never forgave me for that, not because she didn't want to, and not because I didn't ask; I did. She never forgave me because I never proved myself trustworthy to her after that. Efforts to maintain a friendship for me became efforts to prove myself, and for her became an added burden she could not bare for me any longer. However, she saved me just the same. Often times it is not simply our mistakes that help us grow, but our willingness to own up to them, and change. I made a promise, a covenant with God, a last effort to find some redemption when I stand at the end of my life looking back. I didn't vow to never be that way again. I didn't even vow to make it up to her (she wouldn't have wanted that.) The vow I made was much simpler, and so much more complex. I vowed that the next girl I met, that the next angel to come into my life, I would treat her as He would have me to do. And I kept that vow. I kept it when other's would lie to her; I was always honest. I kept it when other's told lies about her. I kept it when other's turned her against me with deceit. And when she didn't believe in herself, I believed in her. And when other's turned against her, when her family and friends where rivals with her, I was her friend. I was always her friend, even when she lied to me. I was even her friend when she betrayed that friendship. In all the times her pride and stubbornness stood between us I was still her friend. But I can't be her friend anymore. Why? Oh, because she acted poorly, and never had the guts to face it- to face me. (if you read this, and I know you will eventually- do your best not to be offended. You don't think I know you? Of course I do. The question you should be asking yourself is if you know me? Am I the friend you've known, or just some mistakes you made? Am I some one who'll stand by you through thick and thin, or was I just some desperate kid who needed affection, clinging to you for no other reason? Am I some one you can trust, and want to be trusted by, or is the relationship we built over three years just a phantom? Forgive me for being blunt, but if I didn't tell it like it is then what kind of friend am I really? If you never face your demons you will become them. Of course I wouldn't know anything about that- after all, I'm just stagnant. I haven't overcome anything, right? p.s. your writing is beautiful. I'm happy that you've found a little clarity in life, I remember numerous emails and letters of jumbled up words and fragmented thoughts. Much improvement.)

Something to say. . . about something.

I've sat mostly quiet these past months, both in body and mind; especially on the net. I've written few stories in my journals, and read even fewer from others. It's not that I've had nothing to say mind you. It's just that I've had nothing good to say, about anything. And anyone. One in particular. You might want to convince me of the absurdity that comes with the idea that a life can revolve around but one thing, but you won't. You can't, because it's not true. Oh it's true we all have lots of things in our lives, lots of little twigs that make us strong, but we all have that one thing; the one thing that makes it worth while. Some of you may not know what it is right off, but it's there. You might think you can guess what mine is, but you'd probably be wrong. And yes, I do say is, not was or should be, but is. Some times in life we find something that attaches a tangible idea to it, and when we lose that temporal charm we can feel lost, broken, even worthless. We mourn in different ways. Everybody feels sad differently, but everybody feels sad. I've been criticized for this blog because it can be too depressing, too sad. Well, some people turn to violence, some turn to substance abuse, and some abuse themselves. I've done all those things. I'd rather be sad. I'd rather let my heart grow soft and weak than to burnish it with anger and regret. The sadness does pass, and there is no better time to prove your humanity. I still have nothing good to say of certain things, no answers to explain it. I've isolated myself so much there aren't even questions anymore, just a phantom in expressions and gestures- hints of things gone by, people gone by. I have one friend in my life. One family tree- and as one leaf falls another sprouts up; After a while the fallen one's won't seem so unique. (But that's not quite true is it. The truth is that they are all unique- but remembering all the subtle little things can be such a burden. It can drive you mad.) So we forget. Our brains forget, to save us from ourselves. But there is the difference between me and you. I can't forget them. My brain won't let me. I remember every last one, lost to the past- separated by time and circumstances, yet still there in every breath I breathe. But none so present, none so powerful as the one I still see every night when I close my eyes. I lied before. I've been lying to myself for some time now. I do have something to say, something good. I just have no one to tell it to anymore. Of course, that never stopped me before. I guess I'm just not ready for whoever might be listening. But then again, I never have been. I guess that's always been part of the problem. But the sprouts still come nonetheless. And until I'm the one fallen, I'll be saying/writing something somewhere.