Multiple people told me that they’ve had a dream about me this week. One said that I was driving on an empty road in a 1967 vette (strange right?), going where? Not sure.. then it apparently skipped a few scenes and there was a crash, I was the casualty. Another one said that I was flying to Istanbul on a rainy day. Apparently there was a thunderstorm out of the blue and plane blew into pieces (how the fuck you may ask? Not sure, but we’re talking about me. I’m sure my luck has rubbed off). I was the casualty again. Someone else said that they had a dream about me drowning in the Atlantic. Not sure how that could be happening as I’m a pretty damn good swimmer, but yeah, I was the casualty again. A friend called me at 3am one night and said that she had a dream about me that I had killed myself. She said that she saw me getting buried too. I was my own casualty this time, but a casualty again at last.
Funny how shit wraps around you and leaves you breathless. Four different and totally unrelated people had four different dreams about me dying this week. This is all while I have been waiting for my pathology results to come in, this week. None of these people knew about the pathology, or even the procedure. None. So how is it that all four dreamt about me dying, all in one week? All this week?
Funny. Just very funny. Maybe it’s time.
You go for a kiss, lips touch, and you melt feeling the warmth. Then you take a breath; a very deep voluntary breath with the sole purpose of breathing that person in and brining them even closer to you with the pull of your lips. Lips don’t unlock. Kissing goes on for.. an hour.
Scratch that. It goes on forever.
. . .
5:45am, your alarm goes off.
I watch the seasons pass by as I constantly wonder about the complications of love. Would distance ever matter, when love is the focus? Isn’t love in itself a form of freedom? A way of peace? Shouldn’t loving someone be healing, relieving, comforting? As much as love is all about the physicality of the parties involved, their scents, their passion, their sensuality and all that, I can’t help but to think that love doesn’t and shouldn’t fit in the time and space capacity. True love is blind. You accept that person for what they are, who they are, how they are, wherever they are. Right? I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe nobody cares about what you go through; maybe they have their own pile of shit that they go through. Maybe after a while, they’ll stop caring about you and anything about you. Maybe they just continue with their lives. You may survive as a memory for a bit, but then you’ll fade away. Just like that. Do you feel like fading away? I feel faint. Light. Weightless, but with the heaviest weight on my eyes .. on my shoulders, in my heart. The weight of the world is on my being now. I am longing for something I can’t afford to have, as cliche as that sounds. But hey, what the fuck do I know about love. I suck.
Who is the girl in your head? Does she come through as much you want her to? Does she make up for what she lacks? Does she wear too much makeup? Does she cut her hair short? Does she wear too much color? Does she think too good of herself? Does she disappear as she please or does she explain? Does she respect or does she pretend so? Does she have multiple faces? Does she remedy what she breaks? Does she step in the ruins only to make anything left disappear? Does she dance? Does she drink? Does she resemble anyone? Does she think she can conquer no matter what? Does she have a fear of loss? Does she carry what she cherishes in her heart? Does she betray as easily as drinking a glass of water? Does she burden you with her crap? Does she live? Does she laugh? Does she enjoy what she’s living? Does she lie? Does she forget? Does she ache? Does she cause hurt? Does she want to keep living? Does she want to keep aching? Who is the girl in your head? Does she want to keep breathing?
Hello arrhythmia, my old friend. I feel like an 80y/o grumpy bitch with this irregular heartbeat shit, taking pills for it and all. I’ve come to talk with you again.. Singing songs I can’t sing. Remember when everything used to be better just because we had fewer expectations? It’s not that people would consider lower standards or not care. It was purely based on the fact that their happiness had a cap. A fairly small cap. I used to have lower expectations, I still do. In fact they’re so low that I’m told I’m constantly getting hurt because of this precisely. I guess I have my mom to thank for it. She had such low expectations and such high patience that she suffered through a horrible marriage for her two kids thanks to these deadly traits. Her two stupid kids. Runs in the bloodline. Like cancer, exists to kill you. One thing I’ve noticed about me that I wish I never had it in me to begin with is understanding others. I do one thing really perfectly in this world and that is understanding others no matter what –unconditionally even when they don’t understand themselves. Wanna know how often I get it in turn? Rarely, close to never. But hey, I have low expectations. Am I happier for it? Fuck no.
“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows”
Words of wisdom.
Been feeling too much of everything at once, and then too little of everything else again at once. Kinda torn, about to be shattered into a minimum of thousand pieces. I was thinking the other day, just because I have the courage to ask, it doesn’t necessarily mean that that person would have the same courage to give. I am only occasionally bearable and memorable after all. It’s like pulling and pushing at the same time, you stop moving and that gives you time and the extra push to think it all over only to realize that while you may want to really be there and be that person and do those things, you really can’t because you just can’t bear it. You can’t bear the loss, it’s inevitable. So you start living with it. You gather your shit together and start living with it so that you don’t go completely insane even though you may have walked in that direction for quite a while now. That live and learn crap that people rave about is a scam. You live, suffer and ache; however, you never learn because when it happens again, you still live and suffer and ache just as much.
She’s cold. Today was a cold day. She’s really cold. She needs her cashmere scarf on her fragile shoulders. She needs her cup of tea with a caramel toffee. She needs her reading glasses and her newspaper that I keep grabbing from the Persian market religiously. She needs her comb and her pearl hair pin on her hair. Awh she smelled like heaven. I mean that’s how heaven smells like, right? Jasmine, with a hint of patchouli, hyacinth, toffee, vanilla and cotton. She would wrap her little fragile fingers around you and you’d feel like you’re in the safest possible place in the world because those were her arms .. right there, around you.. sheltering you from everything and everyone. She was the world and the world was her. She would braid my hair at 3am because she knew I needed her and her fragile little fingers combing through my hair at 3am to calm me. It’s selfish that I want her back. It’s selfish that I can’t bare the fact that someone else may be joining her. It’s selfish that I want them to be here. It’s cold. She’s getting cold. She needs something to keep her warm.
It’s strange how life is. Sometimes I come home from work and for a minute there, I forget that she’s gone. I walk purposefully towards her couch by the living room window, right next to the lemon tree. Then I notice her absence and it hits me like a brick wall every time. It just happened again the other day. I came home and she wasn’t there. You know, her pillow is losing her scent. I don’t know what to do in order to keep her scent on that damn pillow. According to my therapist, I should move on from grieving and longing for her, and that I should just suffice with missing her on a face value.. yeah, she gets paid for this shitvice. That’s fine though, I barely say a word to her. I don’t blame her for not knowing what to pull out of her ass in our sessions. Anyways, that’s not the point. The point is that she’s cold and I can’t keep her warm. The point is that I still ache at the thought of her empty couch and her empty bedroom. The point is that It’s been a year.. a year without her and I have been lost without her.