This blog kind of sucks, but here goes.
I am breathless. Gasping. Every time i yawn I stop dead in my tracks and make myself do it again, just to feel my lungs stretch out, Just to feel the dirt, the skin, the life, settle in my lungs.There is simply not enough air. I want to breath in the atoms of every living thing; I want bigger lungs.
I have an irrational and complex love of everything. Tonight, I am touched by the scent of salsa, and the falsetto of Regina Spektor. I am brought to my knees by a picture of myself, a sunset, and hair dampened by a downpour only willing to relent to my wish for a peaceful goodbye. I have a ravenous love for the feeling of sheets agains my legs, on the first day I've shaven my legs in well, awhile.
This blog is about my way home. My way to myself and all that implies. Some days it feels like I've been gone a very long time. Some days, the thing I feel most vividly is the distance between myself and the girl who rations her openness like butter pats in the second world war.
December for me is typically a time of listening to the Counting Crows' "Long December" on repeat and analyzing and reanalyzing the reasons I have to believe that this year will be better than the last. But this year I didn't. I distanced myself even more thoroughly than I ever have from that deeply feeling mass of human intuition and reception, and refused, completely and utterly to analyze anything. I didn't want to be like all those other pitiful little messes who felt remorse, who wanted to change. I didn't want to associate myself even remotely with anything or anyone that felt.
I played, tittered, drank, debauched, and just generally spent the greater part of the last 3 months proving that I was just as capable of worldly callousness as any testosterone chugging pork rind of a man I met. Let me just tell you, it's been a quality couple of months. Grandma would be so proud.
None of this is easy to admit, I'm even blushing now, with no one in the room but my iTunes and the rapidly dissipating particles of the unadulterated joy I experienced tonight.
And then it happened. I was busy trying to be callous, and laugh away the truth, and I looked at that picture, heard that song, and smelled that smell. I felt the sheets against my legs, and the dam broke. The truth fell open in front of me like an old book. I love. I love the feeling of tea as it slides into my stomach and nests there like a sun swallowed; I love that I can breathe out it's warmth in gusts of flaring heat and fog my own glasses. I love laughing until my chest hurts and I can hardly hold myself up. Sometimes, when I'm feeling rebellious I love the roll of the word "fuck" as it bounces off my tongue. I love you. Really. I don't even care how well I know you, I probably love some piece of you.
I still love my first real boyfriend. He's happily dating someone else. He's a republican. And still, i love him for what he taught me, for dancing to the sound of crickets and the way he shook when he told me he loved me, because it was beautiful. I love it because it ended and I cried myself to sleep for months. I love him because I was in mourning for so long and because dear God, what's the real forever and always wrinkly and fat together kind like?
I love my mother and father because of all the times they broke me into a million little pieces and I learned to put myself back together, I love them breathlessly for the times they were doing the putting back together.
I am breathless. Gasping. Every time i yawn I stop dead in my tracks and make myself do it again, just to feel my lungs stretch out, Just to feel the dirt, the skin, the life, settle in my lungs.There is simply not enough air. I want to breath in the atoms of every living thing; I want bigger lungs.
I have an irrational and complex love of everything. Tonight, I am touched by the scent of salsa, and the falsetto of Regina Spektor. I am brought to my knees by a picture of myself, a sunset, and hair dampened by a downpour only willing to relent to my wish for a peaceful goodbye. I have a ravenous love for the feeling of sheets agains my legs, on the first day I've shaven my legs in well, awhile.
This blog is about my way home. My way to myself and all that implies. Some days it feels like I've been gone a very long time. Some days, the thing I feel most vividly is the distance between myself and the girl who rations her openness like butter pats in the second world war.
December for me is typically a time of listening to the Counting Crows' "Long December" on repeat and analyzing and reanalyzing the reasons I have to believe that this year will be better than the last. But this year I didn't. I distanced myself even more thoroughly than I ever have from that deeply feeling mass of human intuition and reception, and refused, completely and utterly to analyze anything. I didn't want to be like all those other pitiful little messes who felt remorse, who wanted to change. I didn't want to associate myself even remotely with anything or anyone that felt.
I played, tittered, drank, debauched, and just generally spent the greater part of the last 3 months proving that I was just as capable of worldly callousness as any testosterone chugging pork rind of a man I met. Let me just tell you, it's been a quality couple of months. Grandma would be so proud.
None of this is easy to admit, I'm even blushing now, with no one in the room but my iTunes and the rapidly dissipating particles of the unadulterated joy I experienced tonight.
And then it happened. I was busy trying to be callous, and laugh away the truth, and I looked at that picture, heard that song, and smelled that smell. I felt the sheets against my legs, and the dam broke. The truth fell open in front of me like an old book. I love. I love the feeling of tea as it slides into my stomach and nests there like a sun swallowed; I love that I can breathe out it's warmth in gusts of flaring heat and fog my own glasses. I love laughing until my chest hurts and I can hardly hold myself up. Sometimes, when I'm feeling rebellious I love the roll of the word "fuck" as it bounces off my tongue. I love you. Really. I don't even care how well I know you, I probably love some piece of you.
I still love my first real boyfriend. He's happily dating someone else. He's a republican. And still, i love him for what he taught me, for dancing to the sound of crickets and the way he shook when he told me he loved me, because it was beautiful. I love it because it ended and I cried myself to sleep for months. I love him because I was in mourning for so long and because dear God, what's the real forever and always wrinkly and fat together kind like?
I love my mother and father because of all the times they broke me into a million little pieces and I learned to put myself back together, I love them breathlessly for the times they were doing the putting back together.
I love fingerpainting and the smell of garlic. I love batman.
But I reigned it in. I understand that this post is similar to the last, but humor me. I'm back in Boise this week. I'm in love. With the parts that hurt, with my shame, with my hope. I feel a lovely self-awareness and a ferocious desire to feel nothing but exactly what I feel and to know, truly what that means.
I made so many mistakes in this town. I broke so many hearts. I broke my own more times than I care to count. It's February 2nd. It took me 33 days, and I still don't have a real resolution, but I've got this feeling. I feel like every inch of me is stark-ass jiggle-nasty native villager naked to everything. Good thing I shaved my legs, huh?
P.S. I promise something a little less....hoaky tomorrow, I just couldn't sleep, and my lungs wouldn't get big enough.
But I reigned it in. I understand that this post is similar to the last, but humor me. I'm back in Boise this week. I'm in love. With the parts that hurt, with my shame, with my hope. I feel a lovely self-awareness and a ferocious desire to feel nothing but exactly what I feel and to know, truly what that means.
I made so many mistakes in this town. I broke so many hearts. I broke my own more times than I care to count. It's February 2nd. It took me 33 days, and I still don't have a real resolution, but I've got this feeling. I feel like every inch of me is stark-ass jiggle-nasty native villager naked to everything. Good thing I shaved my legs, huh?
P.S. I promise something a little less....hoaky tomorrow, I just couldn't sleep, and my lungs wouldn't get big enough.
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