I have a theory. It isn't proven in any journal or acclaimed anywhere, but it is a tried and true sort of 'Murphy's Law'. And truly,that's all the proof I need.
Dating is fun - until it stops. And in it's place, settles drama.
I don't mean to insinuate that all dating leads to drama, but I will contend that any sort of relationship, friend or otherwise, has the ability to lead to drama. And that, includes dating.
I have experienced such of the like recently, and lucky me, from a few different point of views.
And as I scratch my head like, huh?, I always land on the same question:
When did this get so complicated?
No strings attached? I don't know.
I mean...
Our times are punctuated by reality way too often, still, I cant stay out of a daze with you
... so at a lost for words with each other, I don't know how we've ever spoken at all.
Flirting on the edge of possibility and curiosity; I dare you not to miss me. But please don't call my bluff.
When did this get so complicated? I don't know.
But I'm willing to work it through.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
It vs. Me
You tick...
And I run for the hills. I ask, 'how high?' and 'can I do it faster?' Where would you like me; it? Here? How about here? Is this better?
I think I can, I think I can...
Go faster, further, harder, stronger,. It can always be done better.
Why? Because
You tock...
And my anxiety builds. I feel your second's hand on my neck, down my back,breathing heavy
heavier
heaving in my right ear. Go; don't stop, 'til the end. But it never comes. My hands hold a vicious fever and both are burning a pyro's dream set ablaze with midnight oil and a wick burning from both ends. My eyes are weary from the heat as I look up. Another
Tick...
There is never enough of you and yet all I do is crave more. Always more-don't deny me. But you do. Our tumultuous rendezvous keep me, controlling my right hand and all it's mass production. I stare and look for you incessantly; needing your approval and acceptance, cringing at the thoughtof your shame. The slender fingers of your grip teasing me to continue amidst the countdown, when it comes.
Tock...
And I run for the hills. I ask, 'how high?' and 'can I do it faster?' Where would you like me; it? Here? How about here? Is this better?
I think I can, I think I can...
Go faster, further, harder, stronger,. It can always be done better.
Why? Because
You tock...
And my anxiety builds. I feel your second's hand on my neck, down my back,breathing heavy
heavier
heaving in my right ear. Go; don't stop, 'til the end. But it never comes. My hands hold a vicious fever and both are burning a pyro's dream set ablaze with midnight oil and a wick burning from both ends. My eyes are weary from the heat as I look up. Another
Tick...
There is never enough of you and yet all I do is crave more. Always more-don't deny me. But you do. Our tumultuous rendezvous keep me, controlling my right hand and all it's mass production. I stare and look for you incessantly; needing your approval and acceptance, cringing at the thoughtof your shame. The slender fingers of your grip teasing me to continue amidst the countdown, when it comes.
Tock...
The pressure heightens and my burden increases. Working with less and expecting more; always more. The pen can't move across fast enough, left to right left to right, and the fever hits a dangerous peak. I feign exhaustion, begging for the relief only you can provide. But you don't. We both know I can't, I wont; neither of us will allow the buzzer to time me out.
Go; don't stop 'til the end...but it never comes.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sipology Illusions
The ever eclipsing moon is high in the sky above where I sit; silent, but restless.
Just waiting.
For what I am not exactly sure - yet I will know it when I see it. Feel it. Hear it.
I've been here longing for what seems like a lifetime -twenty one years- and while alot has caught my eye, very rare have things caused me to turn my head.
As I sit tonight, a man, small and frail, but full of hope and belief, passes through the doorway of my perched spot. Even as he hesitantly walks, I feel his positive optimism; not because he is overtly so, but because it is so genuine and suprisingly unjaded. He is older, 60's perhaps, and it is apparent to any who look that he has be directed down the rubble-ridden road of life; the fortunate ones, like myself, have been given the guided tour thus far. My guides? Chance, destiny, opportunity or simply the distant idea of luck that have kept me kept. But not for him.
He smiles to the blase strangers who instanly give him the defensive death eye and force him away with their ignorance. He hasent had the necessary dose of societal conformaty's to be out and about with people who thrive on such things. To him, no words are spoken as he shuffles his feet away, and although they know better, words would actually be useless; he is deaf. He feels their shuns, and turns - only to turn back around and graciously hand them a worn, consequently weatherd, note in the same classic cursive most older people use.
The kind that has written years of letters and correspondence; in this case, mercy pleas.
His note reads of being deaf his whole life and uneducated, assuring them he is of the best intentions and simply would like to know if they have anything to spare. Albeit they cannot read over the blinders of naivete.
Shunned again, and again, and again...
he spiritually picks himself up and smiles his seemingly signiture facade to the last strangers, and proceeds to the doorway he came through. The doorway that brought him into my view.
He passes and in doing so, his note wistfully slips from his meak hands and lands on the wooden slates next to my feet. It is now, under this eclipsed moon, that I turn my head...
Just waiting.
For what I am not exactly sure - yet I will know it when I see it. Feel it. Hear it.
I've been here longing for what seems like a lifetime -twenty one years- and while alot has caught my eye, very rare have things caused me to turn my head.
As I sit tonight, a man, small and frail, but full of hope and belief, passes through the doorway of my perched spot. Even as he hesitantly walks, I feel his positive optimism; not because he is overtly so, but because it is so genuine and suprisingly unjaded. He is older, 60's perhaps, and it is apparent to any who look that he has be directed down the rubble-ridden road of life; the fortunate ones, like myself, have been given the guided tour thus far. My guides? Chance, destiny, opportunity or simply the distant idea of luck that have kept me kept. But not for him.
He smiles to the blase strangers who instanly give him the defensive death eye and force him away with their ignorance. He hasent had the necessary dose of societal conformaty's to be out and about with people who thrive on such things. To him, no words are spoken as he shuffles his feet away, and although they know better, words would actually be useless; he is deaf. He feels their shuns, and turns - only to turn back around and graciously hand them a worn, consequently weatherd, note in the same classic cursive most older people use.
The kind that has written years of letters and correspondence; in this case, mercy pleas.
His note reads of being deaf his whole life and uneducated, assuring them he is of the best intentions and simply would like to know if they have anything to spare. Albeit they cannot read over the blinders of naivete.
Shunned again, and again, and again...
he spiritually picks himself up and smiles his seemingly signiture facade to the last strangers, and proceeds to the doorway he came through. The doorway that brought him into my view.
He passes and in doing so, his note wistfully slips from his meak hands and lands on the wooden slates next to my feet. It is now, under this eclipsed moon, that I turn my head...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Intruige
Things have become muddy. Fast.
Faster than most may have predicted given the laiseez faire persona we both candidly embody.
'Between the sheets' evolved to the lofty sweet nothings whispered in my ear as we lay...
What occurs after dusk is long erased from our composure by dawn, but the smirks alone are enough to prosecute us as truly guilty.
Yet our enjoyable lucidity has been jaded by confusion, dilusion, and mistaken ideas of grandeur, which at best is presumptuous; worst, "dissapointing". The natural inclination to aspire to something, albeit, truly wanting nothing but enjoyment and security to fully dive in....
Alas, our playing fields of preference are off the richter and there seems to be no mutual ground for reconsideration.
Faster than most may have predicted given the laiseez faire persona we both candidly embody.
'Between the sheets' evolved to the lofty sweet nothings whispered in my ear as we lay...
unable to sleep until all was quenched.
We quickly forgoed the customary public renouncement; silently choosing instead to slip gentle hellos and secretive smiles amist the unspoken ethos that surronds us. What occurs after dusk is long erased from our composure by dawn, but the smirks alone are enough to prosecute us as truly guilty.
Yet our enjoyable lucidity has been jaded by confusion, dilusion, and mistaken ideas of grandeur, which at best is presumptuous; worst, "dissapointing". The natural inclination to aspire to something, albeit, truly wanting nothing but enjoyment and security to fully dive in....
Alas, our playing fields of preference are off the richter and there seems to be no mutual ground for reconsideration.
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