Just to Clarify

Can I clarify? My Blog, I will clarify.

What do I miss about love? Love. Ha. Just reading it makes my heart sink 5 feet into the ground. I almost feel like I’m not quite sure what that is. I know what it’s not. I know I’ve become friends with aspects of it. Visited it. Pretended in it; like dress-up.

Because of new/old people in my life, revisiting, I’m seeing things I never would have noticed before. Things that I need in someone else and in myself. I can’t get by in life only having my work life. I can’t get by without writing or taking pictures or being excited about life and it’s possibilities. Previous to my Divorce I was on a one way, no rest-stops, no exits. Just careening towards the inevitable.

What do I miss about love? Romance. The innocence of it all. That at the base of every moment there is only one thing, love. That sickly, can’t shake it, death-bed please be by my side at my worst, love. Currently I don’t want those things. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to be naked.  But I miss it. More than mourning the loss of my best friend, I’m mourning love lost. It’s what hurts the most.

What do I miss about love? Having it.

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Disjointed Applications

Adjustabilty of my minds mental process has been compromised. Juxtaposed into the previous nights thoughts. Dreams. Replays. Here I sit stunted. Wondering all those pathetic wanders. Compromised. To produce any structural comprehension…there is a screw loose. Needing a prescription for growth hormones, specific. Targeted.

I look out my window. Weather report. Jacket no jacket. Start car. Robotic. Method madness. At least these certain things I can do blindly. Memorized. Second to nature. Second to doing this since birth. Second to started my car after exiting the womb. Second to.

Band-Aid me. Neosporin. Hug me and let me cry.

It starts in Dream Sequence

Sometimes, if I work it just right, it’s as if it never happened. I can gallivant through my days like a school girl. Laughing. Dancing. Drinking.

Other days it starts from the silence of sleep. Vulnerable. Penetrating every dream sequence. You are there. Replaying variations of rejection.

The best version of myself is the one that’s an actress. Holding and hiding. Oscar-winning.

Next episode, please.

Too many thoughts, jumping around my head. Banging into one another. It’s a mad house. Not the song, a mad house. Untethered human beings set free. Free to find the crazy in the average and continue to misunderstand it.

Parts of my life are repeating themselves. Simplest description: I’m freaking out. It might be a strong translation of my thoughts but that sums it up.

5 years I lived hindered beneath the weight of someone else. I can’t do that again. Sadly the actions that began that long journey are repeating themselves in a manner that is…a mirror image. Different players, same game, same key moves.

I know things are bothering me when I become obsessed with a show on Netflix. Silly. But that instant gratification of you being someone else, somewhere else, doing “else” things. With books you have time for thoughts in-between the sentences or in the spaces between words.

I don’t want to be a typecast in my life.

Free Translation

World traveler. Artist. Writer. I want to be a winner of the spoken and or written word. I want to spin a web of images that are so vividly painted they are 3D. Attainable by all. Fad. Because like the fad it is addict-able. Able to become addicted to. This web.

Spinning. Spun. Just as worth to see the finished product as it was to create it. Each individual fiber like blood in the veins, giving it life. Oxygen.

To be understood is my heroin, each injection more needed then the last. But not to be understood by anyone other than myself. Self comprehension. Emily Dickinson. But if you find some meaning in it all, kudos.