sleep.

I rolled over to him and gently grabbed his shoulders, shaking them slightly.  "Wake up," I said, "please wake up."  Still very much asleep, he grumbled, "What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong," I said, "but I just need you to hold me.  It's one of those nights.  Please hold me."  Slowly I saw my words register in his mind and he stretched out his arm, his opening move to begin his attempt to appease me.  But we didn't fit.  No matter how we tried, how we twisted and turned, what is normally easy and effortless and innate for us -- that night was impossible.  Each position was uncomfortable.  We both knew it.  Still, he kept trying.  I didn't want him to stop trying, but I knew that if either of us were to have any sleep that night, I would have to give up my request.  "It's not working," I said, "but thanks."  Then I rolled to my side of the bed.

But I didn't sleep.

More and more these days, a comfortable sleep is becoming difficult to obtain.  Some people may prefer to be apart when sleeping, but not me. I dislike it.  I hate feeling as though I am sleeping alone when I'm not.  If I wanted that, I would sleep alone.  What weighs on me more is the fact that we weren't always like this.

We used to sleep tangled in each other, a morass of twisted limbs.  I used to sleep however the hell I wanted, typically with half my legs on him, half on whatever else I wanted.  I would find myself not only breathing air, but his skin, with each inhale -- my face was so often closely pressed somewhere against his body.  It's hardly like that these days.  Our current ritual is to say good night then roll to our respective sides of the bed, backs to each other.  And when we are deep in our sleep, we start to become more like foes than friends.  The battle for the blanket ensues, my efforts to snuggle are rebuffed, and there are moments when I get so annoyed by how he sleeps that I have to elbow him (in the back, no less!) just to get his attention, to tell him to stop twitching, or to move back to his side of the bed, or to get off the blanket so that I can use it, too.  It drives me crazy.

Things have gotten worse.  Now he voluntarily sleeps on the couch some nights, and other nights, I do.  I don't even know why, not really, except sometimes it seems as though we simply can't stand to share the same air with one another.  It's uncomfortable.   Most days nowadays, the only nights that are really great are the ones where I forget that I used to prefer sleeping beside him.  

I miss him, immensely.  I miss us even more.   But I feel trapped in that terrible place where you realize that you can't turn back, but you don't know how to move forward, either.  A little bit stuck, hoping for strength, patience, and love to help you figure it out.   

Anyhow.  I'm tired.  I just want to sleep the way we used to.

The meeting.

We made plans to meet later on in the day.  He had plans he needed to attend to and I wasn't in the mood to accompany him.  The day was pretty and there was a park nearby full of trees offering shade to protect me against the sun.  I went to the park with the intention of sitting underneath the cool of a tree to read my book, and yet, I opted to sit next to a large iron gate instead, thereby exposing myself fully to the sun.  I didn't mind though; sometimes I like the heat.

I noticed him a little bit later, searching for me amongst the trees.  He didn't see me, of course, never anticipating that I would select my station near the gate with my seat the hot concrete instead of the cool grass.  And then I noticed my sudden sense of immobility.  There was no desire to meet him, no desire to get up and greet him.  "I'm supposed to want to, aren't I?," I thought.  "We barely even see each other," I thought.  But I recognized that feeling - that sense of deadness.  I've felt it before.  The onset of my paralysis occurred because, at that exact moment, my mind finally acknowledged what my heart had already known: the feelings I once felt for him no longer existed.

I never quite know when I have crossed that imaginary line between caring and not caring.  It happens so silently, stealthily, completely undetectable.  I can't even be sure if there is ever a cause - a catalyst - or if occurs because I am fickle and cold.  I don't even know how to determine the point of origin or when it happened or why it happened because by the time the realization that I've moved on becomes imperceptibly clear to me, I also lose the desire to fumble through the fogginess of my mind to help piece the puzzle together.  What's the point?  If it didn't make a fuss to begin with, I shouldn't make a fuss now.

He saw me then, at that exact moment.  I slapped on a fake smile.  I had no choice.  The only half-way decent thing to do was to allow this feeling of emptiness the chance to persist, to grow, in order to test it a bit.  If it stayed, then it must be real.  If it suddenly disappeared, then, well, perhaps it was the hours of sitting under the sun that caused it.  Either way,  I had to put on a show, pretend that I was just as happy to see him as he was to see me.  He deserved at least that; he deserved at least confirmation of my distance. 

But when I saw his face, I could also feel my resolve to conceal my true feelings falter.  Falter because I am a terrible liar and falter because the weight of knowing that I was here yet again, at this place where I have been with other men, is more disheartening than I would ever allow myself to accept.  I didn't want to look at him further.  And then, thankfully, I woke up.

Dreams - they can be so real at times, can't they?  Perhaps not in scenery and sight, but at times, certainly in sensation and feeling.  The doom from that dream transferred from my dream state and stayed with me to my waking state.  I felt the sadness of it all over again. This time, this time though, it was real.  Noticeable.  But when I looked to my left, I was so pleased to see Daniel's face.  Grateful, truthfully, because he was not the man in the dream.

On a train from Milan to Verona, Italy.

I brought with me my stack of unread W magazines to keep me company on the many train rides we planned on taking throughout Europe.  Sadly, the magazines are from 2009.  Yes, they're about two years old because I've never truly had the opportunity to read them until now.  

Although a bit outdated, the magazines are still great.  I love W.  It's one of my favorite publications because while it is always fresh and forward-thinking, it's also classic, somehow.  The photos are consistently gorgeous and the stories, where most other magazines tend to fall short, are also typically well-written and worth the read.  Almost every issue has an article featuring some unknown yet amazing individual - a person who has lived a life most mere mortals can only dream of.  I always read those articles even though I have never heard of the individual before because their lives are always beyond fascinating.  W features articles about models, muses, playboys, royalty, artists, criminals, crazies, and beyond -- an entire gamut of personalities.

As a result, after reading each issue, I find myself coveting a life of glitz and glam (but not necessarily fame) that is depicted in the stories I read.  Each person is too magnificent and I want to be magnificent, too.  And this is why, I suspect, no matter how happy I am or how pleased I am with the current state of my life, there is always a part of me that is perpetually dissatisfied because I am forced to acknowledge that destiny does not have in store for me an existence other than that of the ordinary.  I am ordinary.  This saddens me.  And it's no surprise to me that the stories that resonate the most are the ones of the women who have shunned obtaining what I consider today's measure of success:  a good career, a loving husband, adorable children.  These are all items I covet, but as I read stories about women who have found and defined  their passion for love in an atypical manner, with different, ever-changing, beds and fleeting, powerful, relationships -- I wonder why it is I am so common and have only sought such common goals.

And then I look to my left and see an old Italian couple getting ready to depart the train.  I wonder how many years they have been married as they stand up and the wife helps her husband with his coat, pulling his shirt down neatly around his pants because it rose as he tried to put on his coat.  Next, she assists him with sliding on his small red backpack, gingerly guiding his arms through the loops.  There is a sincerity and commitment in their interaction that is silent, but profound, and I couldn't help but notice it, couldn't help but adore them.  With this simple image, I am reminded of why it is that most days I am common and only during fleeting moments do I have the desire to be magnificent.   Because common people are smart:  having a love like that must be good for the soul and everyone wants it 'cause it's bloody hard to achieve. 

Often.

Often I find myself looking at Mr. "Quest for Vagina" and I wonder how it is that I’ve ended up with him.  Admittedly, he is an atypical representation of the men I have dated in the past.  He was only supposed to be a friend.  Definitely a fun.  Maybe a fling.  But that should have been the extent of his impact on my life.  Clearly, the best of intentions can easily crumble in the face of fate.  Somewhere in my willingness to be more carefree and tolerant, he was able to capture that fleeting window of opportunity and transform it into something meaningful, lasting. 

Often I find myself remarking on the asymmetry in our relationship.  By now I’ve secured probably more info than I need to know, but not nearly as much as I want to know, about his life and past.  This is in part due to my naturally probative nature and his natural desire to share; yet, he knows little regarding my past.  He has never bothered to ask, and I’ve never felt compelled to voluntarily divulge.  While I can recall names, facts, and figures about his life, and while I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve raised my eyebrows, shaken my head, looked utterly aghast at the ridiculousness of his tales or the outrageousness of his antics - he only has a high-level understanding of where I’ve been.  Regardless, he still knows me better than I’d like to admit.

Often I find myself marveling on his observant nature.  There have been times where the pat of my hand or the stroke of my fingers have been slightly different, contrary to what he is normally accustomed to, and he will hone in on those slight differences until I confess to the causes.  He knows my scent, when I’m moody, when I’m amused, and he is smart enough to know when to nurture my crazy tendencies, my romantic tendencies, and everything in between.  I know that by being with him, I am committing myself to a lifetime of never being able to get away with anything – and I mean nothing – because I'm too awful of a liar and he’s too acutely aware of even the slightest deflection in my tone.  It’s peculiar to know that there’s another human being in this world who truly sees me and can see through me.  Maybe this is a blessing, maybe it’s a curse, I’m not sure, but I’m positive it’s a reality. 

Today is March 1.  This month marks a major change in my life, one that will bring about … who knows?  That’s the beauty in it, I think.  As excited as I am for what is to come, the conservative part of me is grateful that I have him to rely on during this time.  He is my security.  Life has, magically, worked out better than I could have ever planned.  I’ll bet that doesn’t happen too often, and I’m even more grateful that not only do I have the good fortune to experience it, but also the sound sense to appreciate it.  As volatile as the future may be, every day he is becoming more of a constant - my needed balance. 

perfect.

A while back, I wrote this:

he tells me i need to enjoy life more and in the small increments of time we get to share, it often feels as though he is silently hoping a little bit of his inner peace could bleed into me.  he wonders how we'd be in the daytime, when the opportunity to sleep and rest aren't paramount priorities, and when the cries of all the obligations and duties i take on tug and pull at me in all sorts of directions.  i laugh, and remind him to show, not tell, for telling me to be a certain way and encouraging me to change are two surefire methods to keep me completely stagnant. 

it's a good thing he knows how to listen.

going with the flow is a difficult task for me because i am a person who likes to control the flow.  but he asked, and complying was the least i could do given all of his efforts.  and, now, i can't even really begin to describe how grateful i am that he pushed, and that i dropped my defenses for a brief moment.  because had i not, i wouldn't have enjoyed such a perfect evening.

perfect.  perfect's not a word that gets tossed around easily.  but, perfect is the only word that even comes close to describing the perfect weather, with the perfect sounds of the booming ocean waves, the perfect little palm trees in the distance that resembled oversized mushrooms planted in the the perfect sand, and the perfect night sky decorated with undulating streaks of perfect pale pink.  and, when Mandalay came on the stereo, i knew that he had also planned the perfect playlist.  we took perfect bundled-up mini cat naps, and, it was even more perfect that we finished the night with his less-than-perfect response to being flashed in the face by an officer's bright flash light.  :) 

oh, the memories.  oh, this memory.  i love knowing that perfection is perfectly possible.

Today, I was restless and read through some old emails of ours and stumbled across this line from the mister:  "i just recalled, you did snore on perfect night. how imperfectly inappropriate for such a perfect night with perfect palm trees planted in the perfect sand... okay i'll stop."

He makes me laugh.  He still takes me to beach late at night and together we marvel at the booming sound of the waves and talk about all of the intangible, befuddling, aspects of this existence.  Every day he teaches me how to be a better person, one who loves life a little bit more, one who becomes increasingly grateful for everything she has, and one who is not saddened by everything she has not yet experienced.  And during the moments where I notice our imperfections, I remind myself that imperfections are the norm, but achieving perfection -- now that's something that's rare and precious.  Just like us.

there i am.

Something warm.  I remember something warm grazing my face, my cheek, I'm not sure where exactly because I was only coherent enough to notice the warmth pulsating from that general vicinity.  I also wasn't sure where I was physically at.  I hadn't been sure for a while because I had been on the move, seemingly jumping about from one city, state, or country to the next every day or so.  There was so much traveling involved that I gave up on trying to keep track of it all, preferring to let my mind orient itself based on what I saw, smelled, tasted, not based on what a geography book might tell me about my whereabouts.  I told myself that knowing didn't matter -- if the details were important, once back at home, I could always align the pins across a map after the fact to retrace the steps I took.  So I started to forget the typical indicators - roads and signs and guidelines - because hell, they were all written in a foreign language I didn't understand, which made them all the easier to ignore.  The typically structured and orderly me finally gave up the good fight and succumbed to just rolling with things. 

Seconds before I was in a heavy sleep.  That warm sensation startled me and started to wake me up, if one could describe a weak blink from only one eye lasting half a second a valid attempt at awaking.  But the feeling was jarring, very noticeable, because I was cold and everything around me felt cold.  It had been raining where where I was at and subconsciously, I'm sure I knew that I was still in the tropics, moving about underneath a grey sky laden with heavy, plump, water-filled clouds.  I knew there shouldn't have been anything warm near me.  Yet there it was, but I was too tired to figure it out.  I went back to sleep.  But I felt it again.  It felt very nice against my cold face.  Soft.  Warm.  Warm, soft, soft, warm, there was a hint of a breath on my skin . . . and then I knew exactly where I was at:  I was next to him.

We had spent the past few weeks together virtually day and night, spending our waking and sleeping hours in tight, compact spaces.  Automobiles and buses and airplanes and cheap motels and hotels.   And while the world around us changed, varying from extremely different scenery of flat plains to red rocks to green forests to beige deserts to sandy beaches to volcanic mountains, we stayed grounded by hanging onto each other.  I chuckled a silent chuckle, unpatting that silent pat on the back I had given myself.  Because I hadn't traveled as much as I thought I traveled; I was always carrying a piece of home with me - him.  And in that moment, without having to open my eyes to confirm the accuracy of my guess, I knew he was kissing my cheek, like he has done countless times in the past, like I have grown accustomed to receiving, wanting, needing. 

While losing myself for temporary moments of time feels lovely, weightless, I like even better knowing that there is someone in this world who can bring me back to where I am always aching to be:  right next to him.

the couple vibe.

In my building sometimes I come across this young couple, and while they are complete strangers to me, each time I see them I can't help but walk a little bit slower to examine them.  For one, they are both incredibly good-looking, but what draws me to them are the feelings I get when I am near them.  They're often with their two tiny, but rambunctious, little pugs, and yet as a whole - the entire family feels so serene.  They are a peaceful, calm, couple.  Those are the feelings that emanate from them - their couple vibe, if there is such a thing.

The couple above is a stark contrast to another couple I know.  This other couple is also good-looking and they too have two rambunctious little pugs.  Yet, when I am near them, all I want to do is move further away.  As happy as they are with one another, as in love as they are, they wear me out.  Their energy is one I can only describe as hyper everything -- every feeling and emotion is amplified around them.  And I don't gravitate towards that at all.

Then I think about other couples I know.  For some of them, I think that they're just adorable together and perfect for one another.  For others, I find myself acknowledging how much they love each other.  For some, I find myself thinking that they settled, but that they're content with that choice.  For others still - I count the days until they will break-up, because they're so terribly wrong for each other but too blind, stubborn, or scared to admit it. 

Naturally, I can't help but wonder what couple vibe the mister and I give off.  What do complete strangers see, feel, when they are around us?  I suppose I could ask my friends, but I'm still trying to determine if I want to know.  It's probably a little too soon, too early for an accurate reading.

los angeles traffic.

It's 11:00 pm and I am practically parked on the 405, crawling home at the riveting speed of 2 miles per hour.  Yes, I realize that Los Angeles has a well-deserved reputation for being a bastion for traffic nightmares, and that this moment certainly is not assisting in eliminating that (admittedly accurate) perception, but somehow, I don't mind.

I don't mind because I have very intentionally and strategically structured my life to avoid having a commute.  Most days, I am not bothered by the stop-and-go, by brakes and squeals, by distressed, maniacal, and questionable drivers.  So on the few occasions where the night is calm, where I am not running late, where I have my iPod blasting my favorite jams - this traffic thing ain't so bad.  Besides, it's the perfect excuse to ignore the incessantly blinking red light that seems to beacon unremittingly from my Blackberry.  I can ignore it without feeling guilty, and that brings me much joy.

In these moments, the only thing I allow myself to do is think.  Become introspective.  Probe.  Question.  Ponder.  Stare at the sea of lights in front of me and wonder about the world, about my past choices, about my future.   And tonight I think I'm doing okay -- on my way towards where I want to be, but secretly hoping I'll never fully get there, wherever there is.

gone with the wind.

Most of us probably have heard many references to famous quotes from Gone With the Wind, but I wonder how many of us have actually watched the entire movie, and if so, watched it in its entire 4-hour glory?  Suffice to say --  the movie is quite long and epic, particularly for that time.  While I have always been aware of the powerful characters involved, the basic plotline, and the multiple love triangles, I didn't truly appreciate how thematic the movie is until I sat down and watched the entire thing.  In one sitting, no less!  (Although, admittedly, there was much gossiping + eating + playing with hair between my friend and me throughout the film.)

Sometimes I like to watch older movies for the fashion, but the costumes from the antebellum South do not interest me much with their excessive poofiness and flowery femininity, and thus, I wasn't watching this movie for Scarlett's outfits.  I was really focused on the themes about love, life, human nature, politics, marriage, growth and maturity, and a slew of other vital concepts that were weaved throughout the movie, which surprisingly are still very relevant and poignant to today's world.

What I took away from the movie:

(1)  Proud women are likely to end up unhappy and miserable.

(2)  Indulge in fantasies, but fall in love with what's tangible.

And my favorite quotes:

(1)  "What a gentleman says and what a gentleman thinks are two different things."

(2)  "You'll never mean anything but misery to any man."  (I've heard this one before, but it sounds so much worse on a screen and as part of a script.)

on airports.

We stood at the airport curbside, hugging and kissing, me saying goodbye to him yet again, him getting ready to hop onto yet another plane.  A surprisingly smiley airport worker (they're usually so grim and miserable) saw us and exclaimed, "You two must be newlyweds the way you're acting!"  I blushed; too much PDA, perhaps, but who cares, he was leaving and I was sad.  And secretly I was excited to hear that comment. 

When we first met, I told him of my unwillingness to be in yet another long distance relationship.  For inexplicable reasons, the past few guys I have dated have all been from afar and I was tired of it.  Absolutely sick of the airports, the flights, the coordination, the long periods of time apart, the horrendous mobile phone bills... so I said, no, no more of that.  He looked at me and said I was stupid.  He didn't understand how I could ostracize myself from so many possibilities simply because I wanted my future partner to come from within a particular geographic vicinity.  But I just dismissed his arguments and stood my ground.   I figured I wouldn't see him often and that I wouldn't make the effort to, either. 

But he kept returning.  And he kept returning.  And he kept coming back, staying longer, and together we made more memories, shared more laughs, until one day I realized that the only person I wanted to get to know more was him.  He became worth the hassle, distance and all.

So here we are.  I still hate airports.  I still vehemently dislike being in a long distance relationship, but I am immeasurably happy with him.  And now I have a reason to smile to myself because when I think about him, I am reminded that every now and then it might be worth it to be wrong.

always in a never.

Yes, that's it, an always in a never.

I read this line and I remember.  I remember why we were drawn to each other:  he was always there to serve as my proverbial chalkboard.  A someone to trade ideas with, to discuss and indulge in superfluousness that has no purpose in this world aside from fueling the complicated souls of two beings.  This line, it means something to me, it resonates, but I can't place the sentiment.  I'm at a loss to describe these thoughts that have been swirling in my mind, convincing me that an avalanche is soon to follow.  But it's quite alright.  I'll let it fall.   Tonight I'd like to be doused in white.

It's because they have never seen you, he says.  I would recognize you anywhere.

This line.  This line is a cliffhanger because I wonder if he is the only one who has seen me - not all of me - but that part of me that has been hidden from all other beings.  The part of me that is only visible to eyes that have been searching; the part of me that his eyes were created to see; the part that I have never known until I saw it reflected from within him.  

There we thrived.  In a space that was limitless, without boundaries, because our world existed beyond the outskirts defined and marked by the banalities of daily existence.  And while our bodies were ever-bound, shackled by chains we proudly dragged around, polished, and exploited, our thoughts, our complexities, our ruminations remained separate.  They were the vaporous tenets that bolstered and buttressed our world:  one full of air; light, but decadent, a slight bitterness to balance out the saccharine.  Perfect, because it was never truly real.  It only existed because we existed, but when that fell apart, everything crumbled into ashes along with it.  Was it ever really there?  I only believe in its potential existence because of the ripples I feel on the odd occasion that remind me of vague memories, of a nostalgia that is too embedded within me to be doubted, but too ubiquitous to ever be truly possible.

And I think to myself that this was the price we were always destined to pay by our snobbish rebuff of all things sturdy and obtainable and palpable.  We lived in a world that we could never cling to with strong grips and longing fingers.  We thought that it was enough to hide ourselves from the fate of the secular life; that instead of strong grips and longing fingers, flowery words and endless sentences would suffice.  They were not.  Eventually he failed me, and I him, as our written apologies lacked the gloss and luster they once possessed as we sprinkled them across the pages of our time together.  But, mostly, we failed each other when we permitted ourselves to create this hollow sphere to begin with.  Bubbles will always burst and when one falls from the celestial skies onto hard concrete - no matter the preparation - there will be breakage.  Of bones, of beliefs, of promises.  

Maybe I was a liar.  Maybe I was a dreamer.  Maybe the two are just two sides of the same exact coin, but I've stopped wanting to be flipped.

sad sorrows.

There's a photograph of a small girl standing with her family as they prepare to embark on a day trip somewhere.  She is standing in front of her father, with his hands resting on her shoulders, with her head down, staring at the ground.  Everyone is smiling, happy, posing for the camera, and at first blush, one might think that the camera just caught the little girl at the wrong moment.  But, look at another nearly-identical photograph and one would quickly realize that the little girl was simply sullen, intentionally refusing to smile for the camera, intentionally aiming to appear unhappy.

She refused to smile for the camera even after her father spent several minutes coaxing her, asking her what was wrong, attempting to cheer her up.  But she was angry about something and though she cannot remember what she was angry about, she distinctly recalls feeling adamant, stubborn, and proud.  She wanted attention.  She wanted her father to spend a few more minutes coaxing her.  She wanted the world to stop moving and to slow down to her pace, only to continue when she was ready to proceed.  If no one wanted to indulge her, she thought, then she wouldn't indulge anyone else (herself included) and she refused to have fun that day, no matter the cost.   

But, nobody cared about her.  Everyone went about their day, had fun, and now, the only memory she has of that day is one that embarrasses her.  For all her effort and pouting - she obtained absolutely no benefit, just another wasted opportunity to have a good time.

* * *

"Maybe you don't know how to appreciate people enough," he said.  He has a way of speaking to me that no one else has managed to achieve.  He speaks in simple terms, but his lines are biting and sharp.  He causes me to listen, to reflect, and most times, I end up pushing aside my ego to admit that his observations are accurate.  Yeah, maybe I don't know how to appreciate people enough.  Yeah, maybe I've misconstrued unconditional love to mean unconditional patience, but they surely are not the same thing.  Yeah, maybe I've abused the kindness I've been shown.  And, yes, it is absolutely time for me to stop being that girl who ruins a perfectly great picture because she doesn't know how to get over herself in order to put others first.


That little girl is all grown up now, but she sadly hasn't matured very much in certain respects.   She's not quite able to agree that just because she truly is the center of someone's world, bestowing that honor upon her does not require them to move, breathe, live by her directions and demands.  She is barely starting to realize that the people who support her, who are there for her, are not the ones she is ever allowed to be mean towards; they only take her cruelty because they care, but with each reoccurrence, the concern depreciates at a more alarming rate.  She's finally truly understanding that famous Emily Bronte quote she has loved for many years - "Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves" - because her pride has caused her to wallow in her own self-created pools of sorrow too many times to count.  And, she is a lot tired of that life.


The question that begs to be asked, and hopefully can be answered, is:  how does she stop?

the box.

The last I heard from him, he was getting ready to move.  I had some, a lot, of his things at my place still and realized that I needed to send it all to him.  He didn't want anything, he said, but neither did I and in that situation - it was only decent to send it all back.  He could figure out what to do with his own possessions; they never were mine to disregard.

Truth is - I wasn't quite ready to send it all back.  It's one of those things that I always thought I would have more time to wrap my head around.  I still missed him, or the idea of him, I can't be sure, but I missed something.  There was too much bad and ugly towards the end, so much so that I forgot about the long period of time that was filled with so much good.  I wanted to use his belongings to remind me of all the wonderful things about him.  But I didn't think he wanted to give me his new address, which is what I would've needed to buy myself a little more time.  So on the last possible Saturday morning, I went around my apartment grabbing what I knew to be his and packed it all into an old generic cardboard box.

It's not like I intentionally packed with haste or without care - I just packed without emotion.  I was on a deadline.  It was the only way to do it.  No time to tissue wrap and polish things off with pretty little ribbons and bows.  I tried to be as thorough as those few minutes allowed me to be.  I remember pausing when it came to including a note, some kind of cover letter to explain.  Should I, should I not, and if I did, what should it say?  He deserved a lot of words, I felt, but I didn't want to give him any more words, I felt.  In the end I scribbled something nondescript.  I can't remember what it said.  Maybe it was a sentence, maybe it was two, but I know it was objective, purposeful. 

Of course I forgot a few items.  Things that were placed in locations I didn't think to look; things buried under other items of mine; things that were accidentally hidden.  I wish I would've done a better scrub, but alas, hindsight.  I can't remember the trigger, but at some later point in time he highlighted for me the irony of it all: the few items he actually wanted back were the exact ones I forgot to send.  Figure that.

It is sad, really.  In that moment I fully realized that it had been quite some time since I had been happy.  More poignantly, in that moment I fully realized that it had been quite some time since I made him happy.  For even when I tried, I could never seem to do right by him.  Maybe I just didn't try hard enough, I don't really know.  I suppose in the end it was fortuitous that I did not invest that much time into packing his belongings.  Because, frankly, there really is no benefit in spending a second longer thinking about a man who always reminded me of my failures.  And, I'm glad I didn't.

the light.

For the past ten minutes my eyes have been glued on a distant street lamp that keeps flickering on and off.  I'm in my office, looking down from a high vantage point at the city beneath me, and of all the thousands of flickering lights I see below -- this one has managed to catch my eye and captivate. 

It's sporadic.  The light goes on, then off, for a few minutes, seconds, at a time.  On occasion it spurts back on with quick successions of effort, like an epileptic attack, like a resuscitated heart.  I hear a faint buzzing noise.  I wonder if the bulb is dying, if there is a short circuit somewhere, but mostly, I wonder if this one dear street lamp is simply a fighter, unwilling to give up even when the circumstances suggest that come tomorrow night, this interesting exchange of darkness and lightness will be no more.

It's silly, I know, but I find myself rooting for this street lamp.  I want it to keep shining.  The part of the street that has been darkened by its failure bothers me -- it's as if there's a little less hope in the air.  So please, little guy, keep beaming, figure out a way.  I'll check back with you tomorrow night.  Don't let me down. 

the red pumas.

I paused and looked down at my red Pumas kept near the front door.  For a second, I thought to myself that I shouldn't put them on, but I went ahead and slipped my feet in them anyhow, opened the door, and snuck into the night.  He was waiting for me to arrive.  And while the pretense was innocent enough, I'm sure we were both just kidding ourselves to uphold the roles of social decorum we had perfected over the years.  My heart was hurting; my head was a mess; he was company on a chilly, lonely, night.  The ingredients were there and I was hungry.

"I like your shoes," he said.  I smiled.  Of course he would - they were kind of awesome.

I didn't know then, but that night was certainly a turning point in my life.  It was the night that started a spiral of occurrences; mostly negative, all memorable.  It ended friendships, forced me to make involuntary decisions, and turned my life to the current course that it's on.  I learned what it felt like to disregard another's feelings to save my own.  I learned what it was like to prioritize myself above all others.  I learned that I could do both much too easily, suffering only a few moments of hesitation that were easily overpowered by a mountain of self-preservation.  

And when I snapped out of it, finally realizing the error in my ways, finally acknowleding that I was clinging onto something temporary while forsaking something potentially permanent, I again found myself pausing at yet another front door - this time at one that was entirely unfamiliar to my eyes - before slipping on my red Pumas for the second time that night.  I headed home.  I then engaged in honest, painful, conversations.  I owned up, confessed, but I've never fully recovered.  Whereas most of memories fall to a soft blur with each passing year -- this one remains crystal clear.

* * *

A few years later, in a completely different place, with an entirely different man, in a seemingly different existence, he told me that he purchased a pair of red Pumas.  I smirked.  "I had a pair once upon a time. . ." 

Life.  It's humorous at times.

closure.

There was a point in time when I thought I would always be waiting for him.  Not in the literal sense - not in sitting around and pining away - but that a part of me would never fully let him go because he was such an important part of my life.  He has shaped me and guided me all these years, from afar, even though I can't tell you what he is currently up to, how he looks, what his life is like, or anything that would suggest that I am still someone he might consider a friend.  I have no knowledge of who he is because it has been years upon years since I've seen or spoken to him last.

I've indulged in crazy thoughts, borderline stalker thoughts, of just showing up one day unannounced and saying hi, hey, how are you.  But it wasn't the logical side of me that put an end to those fleeting fantasies.  Ironically, the romantic part of me realized that such an encounter would be anything but.  Because I no longer have anything left to say.  Because I've reached out one too many times just to be stonewalled.  Because even if he is indeed sitting around silently pining for a resurrection of once we once had - it won't make a difference anymore. 

He told me then that it would take him years to get over things.  I've always been curious as to whether he has kept his word.  And though I will never find out, I genuinely hope he misjudged the poignancy of our dissolution 'cause no one should have to wait, ever, but especially moreso when that something was never meant to be in the first place.  It has taken a lot of time and a lot of work, but I now understand that closure doesn't always have to be a two-way street.  I only need myself to tie up loose ends and I've allowed this one to dangle listlessly long enough.

Happy birthday, you.  Labor day weekend used to always be your weekend, but I'm taking that throne away.  Because there's someone new now and I no longer have enough head space to continually give you free room and board.  I want new memories.  I want something better than what you left behind.  And when I get on that plane later on tonight, trust that I will have no intentions of ever wishing you a happy birthday again.