My Writing

The nostalgia of autumns past..

"I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is." ~Vladimir Nabokov

I look out the window, surprised at the spectacular crispness of the tree that stares back at me. It is covered faintly with snow, like a blanket that is surprisingly familiar to me. Young lovers walk by, surprised that they are alone on such a beautiful day. They kiss; a kiss so spectacular that the heaven's might as well have just opened, allowing rays of light to shine down on them. They continue their walk, into the future, unsure of the reality that surrounds them.

'Oh how I long to be them,' my soul silently screams. But I am held captive in here. I am a prisoner, trapped by endless paperwork and freshmen drama. Good-bye sweet singer. The memory of what once was, and my underappreciation for it. Memories are bittersweet; never remembered as the actual event. We add our biases to our memories, and put on our rose-colored glasses to view them. I love them despite.

I remember when I was in love; although it was not a deep kind. It was immature, based solely on what was said. Perhaps I even felt something. I do not remember. I do remember the first time I laid eyes on him though. Electric. Intense. Shock. Nervous. Those feelings; come back to me! I need these feelings once more! Oh memories, do not fail me now! You are the only possessions that are really mine! Do not forget me, memory, and I will not forget you.

Home. Maybe not mine, but one that I love. Memories are bounding out of these walls, almost as if they were once living people. I walk in and see my grandmother, always so full of life and warm. Serene and surreal. I almost start to cry, it has been so long. It smells like cinnamon here, a smell that should be associated with every and only grandmothers homes. The teapot sits pristinely on the new stove. Where is the old one? Despite, it looks happy, probably contemplating the change in this old house.

So many memories jump back into my nose, eyes and ears. They are almost tangible, as I can see the vividness of each one. The chair that I sit in is an old one, used thousands upon thousands of times. I still believe that it belongs to me because we were so intimate together. Hours of playing games at this table were spent. I learned what a sore lose was at this table, but also tasted victory. The woodwork within the table tells millions of tales. Nobody remembers all of them except for the wood, and its' memory is so perfect that even the most insignificant whisper can still be heard to the eager ear.

We are flawed, but only because lives were lived here. We are proud of our flaws, and I will not change them. Not here. To change those flaws would be suicide to that which we are capable of. This house was a mold for our flaws, and I am so proud. To have become so imperfect in a place so familiar. The taste of the air is musky, but again I would not change it, for I love the fault.

She sat down, surprised that she had made it up on to the stage. Nervousness ran through every bone as she contemplated the preparation it had taken to get here. Hours of slaved confines she had given to this. Now it was time for her payment, as she touched her five fingers to the keyboard of that baby grand. She started out with a scale, but stumbled on the seventh note. In shock, she pulled away. She had humiliated herself, and her head shrank into her shoulders as her eyes wandered towards her feet. Everyone was laughing at her, but she knew she must continue. She started again, praying that she would not fall victim to the hollers of the keyboard, giggling because she had tickled it. As she got past the first scale, she forgot where she was.

Within a moment’s flash she had fallen victim to the serene, beautiful sound that her fingers caused. She was in the middle of her house, convinced that the beauty she saw there was beyond all comprehension, as she then slowly walked into her piano room. She sat down and cried. She poured out her soul, and talked about everything wrong. As she rested her head against the top board of that grand piano, it whispered to her, Play my music. Play my century old ivories with invigoration and depth and the anger that is you. Play me! You created this music, you must not give up!

Scared of what would become her fate if she did not, she touched the A note. It rang in her head and she screamed, through the tips of her fingers, she screamed so hard and so loud that she had forgotten what would become of this moment, this hour, this lifetime. Her fingers pounded away at the music that she was creating, and passions and emotions filled within her. Each note was beautiful, but not in the ordinary sense. It was beautiful because it was honest, it was true, and it would never betray her, never! As she continued on she saw blacks and whites and grays coloring her world, not allowing for the brilliant color to come in. Slowly, reds were allowed to grace their presence within her world, and yet she was not aware of what would become of them, except that it infuriated her. She played harder, so angry at the red for ruining her perfect life. Damn you! She yelled within her head. She played harder at the keyboard until everything left her. Blue slowly seeped through the holes. She could not be angry, for she had been angry for too long. The blue was not intimidating, besides. Instead, it comforted her, and cried with her for everything she had lost. Long hours were spent holding on to the blue, and the blue never told her. It never told her until she felt better.

She was serene now, mellow and calm. She was lost without energy, when Yellow came and embraced her. She held on long to Yellow, for Yellow was beautiful, and was everything that she dreamed to be. Yellow invigorated her, and helped her see that there was a new place for her, a place where everything could be achieved with constant dedication, and that she could make amazing things happen. Yellow was happy, and did not choose to change. She was happy Yellow was there, and wished Yellow never to leave. Yellow faintly told her, Finish. Finish this masterpiece that you have started, and make it the most eloquent of masterpieces ever heard. You are beautiful, and so is what you have created. You must finish!

At the encouragement, she finished the piece with vigor and admiration. The piano, her piano, applauded her, exclaiming the incredible feat that was accomplished. But her piano would not stay, instead it had to leave her. I love you, the piano told her. She cried and cried and closed her eyes shut until she arrived again to that horrible stage. Silence, sickly silence, filled the room, and she cried. She cried for what she had found, and for what was lost. She had given it her all, but had given nothing as well. As she walked off the stage, everything went dark, and she screamed.

When I look at you I hurt. I hurt because of the things I felt in your presence, and because you were this amazing person. This amazing person, gone sour. The beginning was pristine, perfect in every possible way. But you've changed. And I have changed. And probably for the worse, but maybe for the better. I do not know. All that I do know is that my life is a pile of shambles, banging against the desk, asking for a solution, a quick fix, anything to get out of tumultuous times. I love you though. Why do you not feel the same towards me?

If only you could look at me once more, with every loving passion that you had felt before, once. I remember it, clearly. It was perfect. And I loved you. And you loved me. And it was perfect.

And then you messed up. I forgave you, for how could I not, how could I risk losing the only person that I cared for in my way? I loved you. And you tore that to pieces and made my life a living hell. I loved you anyway. In my eyes you could do no wrong. Our song would play in the future, but you stayed in the past, while I sat in my chair, staring absently at what was present. I hate you. I do not really, but I hate what you did. You were everything to me. No you weren't. But I thought you were. And you proved me wrong. Congratulations.

Still, memories are always bittersweet, and you, darling are the most. I will always love you, but now you just are not worth the price that I paid. I gave you the sweat of my brow, and the tear on my cheek. And it was not all in vain. You gave back to me, but you did not mean it. Not how I did. Misunderstood. I love you, but I will forget you.

The consequences of love are varied; they hold counterparts and are shaped by the people involved. You have to deal with consequences though to recieve the benefits. It's stupid, really. We grow up thinking that love is this wonderful sensation, almost an extreme, if you will. We foolishly believe that love can conquer all things, and as we begin to grow, we realize that sometimes it cannot. But we still believe in it, because we cannot imagine a life without it.

The trouble with love is that it makes things complicated, and has a way of striking chords that you didn't know you could play. As you begin trying to adjust to these chords, at first you are awkward in them, but then something happens, and they seem just as natural as if you've been playing songs of them your entire life. And then you grow to love it, love, that is. Then you can't imagine your life without those chords in your songs. Once you have fully adjusted to it, life will take that love that you have learned and try to take it away. But just because life won't allow you to play those chords anymore doesn't mean that you've forgotten how to play them or how it felt when you knew them so well that you could play them with your eyes closed. And then life isn't fair. And it's not.

The reason that people fall in love is not the beginning or the end, but the process getting from the one to the other. People learn they could do things that they never thought possible, and they are better from it. They think that all the world needs is love, for they are blind. How can you blame them? It is something we all want, whether we admit it or not. And we strive for it, yearn for it, and grow from the experience that encircles us in our quest. It is the process that lets us know exactly what love is.

Then the two people involved would do anything for each other, because their lives are intertwined. One person's sorrow is the other person's. Their happiness is their partner's happiness. Intertwined into each other's lives, but really much more than that. They are in love, madly so. Seemingly, it can never end, and maybe it never will. It is up to the two people involved, for they make their love what it is.

Clouds gently hug the peak of the mountain, comforting her through the storm. The mountain cries to the clouds, ever sure that there is someone who loves her. She is too strong for her own good, and she is intimidated by showing weakness. The clouds let her know it is okay. It is okay to be weak. It is okay to be sad.

Thunder rolls, loudly in triumph as the mountain, through the clouds, cries all over the solidity and earth that she is ground upon. How beautiful the colors are with a vibrance shown to all as an unfamiliar item is shown to a new born baby. Wonder fills her earth.

"No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears. I'm here, nothing will harm you, to guard you and to guide you..."

The mountain cries more into the earth, as the clouds continue to embrace her. She pulses. Clouds! she cries, Where have you been? I have needed you for so long. Why have you not come until now, when I am about to fall apart?

The earth shatters, many trees falling into a state of remorse. They are sorrowful. For they never questioned the mountain's confidence, and they never realized that she too, might be sad. They never cared.

I have not forsaken you, the clouds say to the mountain. I come in your most extreme state, I come out and comfort you. I love you, mountain. I will always be here for you.

The mountain cries some more, her majesty no longer something to be admired, but rather something deployable.

The clouds exit slowly, carefully. I will be back, the cloud says to her. Never lose hope, and never lose faith. And always know, it is okay to be the weak one sometimes.

"Anywhere, you go let me go too."

A rainbow is painted carefully across the sky, to which the mountain smiles. The world is beautiful, and her sorrow has created something even more beautiful.

She is flawed, but perfect.

"That's all I ask of you."

And the sun shines on over the happy valley.

Millions of trees stare back at me after I finish my sore plight. I can faintly hear some prayers that I will give them the chance to speak, while others speak so loudly that their leaves fall off and I go deaf.

But I do not; instead I am transported into a world I have never been before, where the trees talk, and where I can hear more clearly. They all have their unique stories – some tell of frost bitten nights, alone, with a small ounce of hope left that summer will one day return. Their nakedness, the constant failing attempt to hide it, is exposed to the others, every part - sometimes embraced, sometimes not. Sometimes they are scared of what the other trees think of their nakedness, especially those able to keep their leaves, and they cry. They do not even realize that others are naked too. Some turn bitter instead, inwardly and outwardly, and their branches break off. As their limbs suicide themselves to the ground, you can hear their silent screams of inner torment – but it is too late. They have fallen, and there is nobody to listen anymore but themselves.

The ones who survive this harsh winter rejoice as the sun rejoins them and brings with it warmer air. With the sun some of the trees branch out beyond themselves. They let others grasp hold to their newfound health, and in so doing, produce the fruits of their labors. They realize that in helping each other that they have grown. Many are more than they had ever hoped to become.

Yet many more become what they had never hoped to. Their decaying matter on the forest floor that once was a part of them screams back to them to listen. Entrapped, they will not, nor can they. They are in a limbo within their own universe with no outside contact, and regretfully re-play their embittered departure over and over again, with no hope of ever becoming what they could have.

The growing trees do not give up – they still call back to them, wanting them to gain what they already have. They beg them to try a little longer, a little harder, telling them it will be worth it. Yet the decaying trees are still lost, too far consumed in their own personal failure of what they were supposed to be to hear them.

One Look –


Verse One:

I saw you follow me
Looking for much more than eyes could see
You looked right through me
You saw into my soul.
You’ve given me ev-ry-thing
With your one look
I thought no one could do that for me
I’m not what you call an open book…


Chorus:

But you….You have just saved me.
And you … follow, looking for something you once owned
And you…. You gave me just one look –
How could you have known.
All that you would show - -
To me.


Verse 2:

And now I know that face, how does that make sense?
You broke me down, how’d you get past this steel fence
I built so high?
Your one look, it caught me by surprise,
What you have just done for me
With that one look, I re-al-ize

Chorus:
That you…You have just saved me
And you…follow, looking for something of your own
And you….you gave me just one look –
How could you have known
The amazing things you've shown —
To me!

(key change)
And you….You have made me the woman that I am
And you – followed, you were looking for something of your own
And you... you became, the lion to my lamb.
How could you have possibly known
Everything you had to show —
For me.


Verse 3:

Now I know me. My feelings, my passions
You’ve given me my life back! My hopes, my dreams, my inspirations
That one look gave me
Ev-ry-thing!
You’ve saved me.
You gave me a chance - -
For me to know me…

Scarf.
Perhaps you never did care about it.
It was never worn.
It was Thrown on the coat hanger.
It was sitting next to that jacket that you never wanted.
Your mother gave to you.
It was an obligation.

Little did you know how much
Work
Went into that scarf
That is
Thrown
To the Side
And never Looked at again.

You could have
Possibly
Known
How much my hands hurt
Making that for you.
Every stitch;
All the thousands of them.
But,
I did not
Wince
Or Cry
Or
Admit
That
I
Was
Gaspingforair.

That scarf has been in the same Place
All
Year.
Its pain has since been forgotten, but it is
A constant reminder
Of how much you could have loved
That scarf.

Labels: Carelessness, Obligation, Potential, Scarf

You’ve heard it before.
Life is a varied array of chances and life decisions and sometimes it doesn’t end up the way you want it.
But sometimes it does.
And before you know it your life is over, and you start to wonder what you’ve lived for.
What you’ve done.
Who, if anyone, you have affected by being alive.

Perhaps you’ve affected no one.
Perhaps no one really cares if you’re alive or if you’re dead.
Perhaps though, you’ve changed.
No one realizes it but you, but you realize that you have become a better person than you were before, and that you are a stronger person than when you started.
You’ve learned the usual life lessons.
You’ve sewn your wild oats,
And you even had fun along the way.

You felt your heart break for the first time, and wondered how you would ever live again.
When you found someone to love again, you wondered if you could ever trust them.
When you found that you could, you wondered if you would die even worse if they broke your heart, more so than the first time. When you didn’t, you became whole in them.

Love supposedly gets better with age, but what if it gets worse?
What if love is a needing to matter – to not be alone?
What if it is just a security blanket?
What if love is just holding us back?
Could we ever love someone and feel so passionately about them even until our dying days, that we wouldn’t want to spend a moment apart from them?

Perhaps we love because we want to affect someone with the fact that we were alive.
Perhaps we only love because we want someone to care as deeply about us as we do about ourselves. We would never admit that of course, for false modesty is prevalent in our society of political correctness and societal truths.

But think about it.

Maybe we only love to make a difference. To feel like it mattered that we lived at all. To have someone mourn the loss of us, and someone to celebrate our achievements as we go through life.

Or maybe we only love because we have nothing better to do. The drinking and the partying and the promiscuous sex only last a short time. Soon we start to search for some higher meaning in life. Our biological clocks start to tick tock as we soon need children in our lives.

At that point, you wonder why.
Did we get bored only loving one person? Do we need someone else? Or perhaps, having children is an additional security – the thought that if your love were to leave you or die then you would have someone else that cared and to whom you mattered.

Someone else who made life worth living.

Life is short.
But it’s short for a reason.
Life is short to get you off your ass and to live each day as fully as possible.
Life is short so that you realize how important it is to love someone.
Life is short so that you can fall so deeply in love with someone and still feel as passionately in love with them in old age.
Life is short so that you can matter, because someone all of a sudden fills your life with hope and passion and dreams that you never knew existed.
Life is short to find out who you are, and to see who you will become without waiting.
Life is short so that you can make a difference

Without someone to help us make a difference, our lives become a deep void.
But thankfully, life and love are synonymous
And love makes us matter.
Love makes a difference.
And when you find love, you begin to live.

It does matter after all that you were alive.

At least to someone.

Labels: Life, Love, Purpose