Feelings and frustrations and love

Turn up the music real loud
Strap the bass to my chest
Let the voice press up against my forehead
Spread my ribs so it echoes inside me
Louder and louder until the vibrations make my forearms tingle.
Let the words mean so much they no longer exist
Let me cry alone in my room
With the music around me
Loud
Turn up the music real loud
So it's me in my mind
Turn up the music real loud
So the world dissolves around me
Turn up the music real loud
And just let me be.

I ...

I saw this "survey" on facebook and I thought I'd give one of these things a try:

I AM: only a human.

I WANT: to be in a beautiful place right now, sitting and talking, listening and mutually enjoying the silence.

I HAVE: too much to do, so much to say, too much passion, so much confusion, too little time.

I WISH: on shooting stars against all of my scientific, sketpical humbug-ness.

I HATE: summing things up and beind decisive ... I hate being narrow-minded.

I MISS: three people intensely right now.

I FEAR: the unknown, but I'm brave.

I LISTEN: to trees.

I SEARCH: for answers.

I WONDER: about things that make me seem small.

I REGRET: nothing because I try to learn from everything.

I ACHE: for simple security.

I ALWAYS: read too much into things.

I AM NOT: alone.

I DANCE: when I'm happy and comfortable and there's music in the air or in my head.

I SING: but no one will catch me.

I CRY: when I am overwhelmed ... I cry at beauty; I cry when I am touched; I cry when I cannot stand an emotion any longer; I cry when I miss someone; I cry when I can't understand; I cry when I lose my way.

I WRITE: about everything and nothing. I write because sometimes that's the only thing I can do. I write because I need to put things into words. I write because that's what it all comes down to and it goes without saying that I love the feel, sound, texture, power, individuality, expressiveness, and melody of words.

I LOSE: hope sometimes, but I always get it back.

I CONFUSE: searching for finding and I don't think I'll ever get it quite straight.

I NEED: to know it's okay.

I SHOULD: rip out my heart, tear out my brain, throw them on a canvas and find my soul and use it as a plaster. Or so I sometimes feel.

I love the smell of vanilla. I love greeny-velvety-yellow – the colour of light in a forest. I love Shakespeare comedies and I love dark chocolate. I love wearing lip balm, creamy and soft. I love brown – I love how rich and creamy it is – bold, soft and melted, subtle but wild – I love green. I love potent magenta and vintage turquoise and coral and yellow-orange and inky black. I love cream, maroon, and grey. I love fleece and corduroy and wood. I love the sound of crunching gravel underfoot. I love shiny, knobbly roots that look like dinosaur fossils. I love Dixieland jazz, passionate opera, cellos, trumpets, a yearning, yawning bass, a sultry saxophone. I love – I am wooed by – the clarinet: subtle, gentle, mellow, and teasing. I love tenor and bass voices and pure, sweet sopranos. I love holding hands, I love closing a book after reading the last page. I love crossword puzzles in the morning when no one else is awake. I love cereal, soggy or crunchy. I love sharp pencils. I love my collarbone. I love how people walk. I love trees – I love their silhouettes, how they sway, how tall they are, their grace, their majesty, how humble we must be in comparison, the confidence and passion with which they curve their roots into the ground, the texture of their bark, climbing them. I love doodling and sketching with soft pencils on thick paper, portraits, painting, photography. I love reading. I love dancing. I love jeans, pearls, tulips, magnolias, red roses, pink and orange roses, yellow roses, white roses, full open roses and reserved, elegant, tall deep red roses. I love candles and playing with the wax until I burn my fingers. I love sitting by the fire. I love hiking, lost on a mountain. I love waterfalls, I love effervescent, ever-flowing, effigy-carving streams that burn and boil and bubble and murmur forever and ever and ever. I love impossible concepts, I love thoughts with no answer. I love answers. I love understanding without words. I love descriptions and poetry. I love meaningful nonsense and making my own sense. I love tradition. I love concrete and satin, plaid and tartan. I love smiles, eyes, and the pattern on irises – rich, natural, resonant hazel, tempest blue, grass-textured emerald, coffee-brown. I love how light squeezes into arrows when I'm teary and gathers into rainbow beads on my eyelashes. I love how wind buffs my face. I love medieval-like fall and rustic winter, proud, naïve summer and delicate spring. I love spotlights, illuminating columns of dust in the air, victimising the soloist, beaming from the heavens. I love the ocean and I love the sky. I love golden-white sand, bleached, aged driftwood, myths, stories, legends. I love really good erasers. I love listening to people. I love my room. I love my house. I love silence and old photos and the moon when it’s just a sliver and when it's so big I think it has begun to swell. I love being alone and being alone with someone. I love maps and cultures and everything about travelling. I love light and how it plays with shadow. I love how words can change everything. I love connecting. I love huge comfy pillows with big gold tassels. I love thick wooden beams and high ceilings, red doors and long elegant drapes – like the curtains in a theatre. I love theatres, old and new. I love laughing at myself! I love laughing; I love whistling and humming, and singing when I'm alone. I love learning, I love irony, I love rainy days. I love rainy days because you’re allowed to be sad. I love rainy days because there is no reason to be sad. I love rainy days because they're like a child throwing a temper tantrum to make a point. I don't take them seriously, and they seem to understand. I love beautiful dark and rainy and so do I love brilliant and sunny. I love breezy, sunny, glowing summer days. I love not having a reason. I love the rush of possibility. I love blowing out candles and watching the smoke drift away into nothing – like barely tangible dreams! I love more than I can list.
I don't love everything in my world.
And I love people more than I have words to describe.

Tension and release

The snorting and sneezing of a hose,
A grumbling lawnmower,
Lazy music from a cool patio,
A gurgling stream,
A man sitting on a roof beside a pile of shingles,
Far in the distance: wind chimes.
The sun peeks out from car windows,
From pieces of foil caught in a bush.
It plays a silly game of hide and seek.
A shrill, staccato bird pipes the sketch of an opera,
The road is dull and dusty,
A woman with a yellow road sign, with wisps of hair the colour of bleached logs on the beach, grey and brown, escaping from under an orange helmet.
A black tattoo on her shoulder.
A youth paints a face with a bare back the colour of caramel.
An old, glossy-red sports car with the top peeled back zips in and out of the shade.
A phone rings and no one answers,
A white butterfly flutters across the path,
A potent blue sky and whipped cream clouds,
A crumbling sidewalk,
A canopy, glazed in silver, hisses in the impish breeze.

Guilt

Do you remember that evening,
On our summer camping trip?
We went for a walk,
In the dark.
Late at night.
Do you remember,
The sound of the gravel under our feet?
The stars studding the velvet sky?
The seductively noxious smell of extinguished fires?
The fleece against our necks?
Do you remember what we talked about?
I asked you,
And you said you wouldn't.
You said it was stupid.
You said it and the words caught at my heart like a faulty zipper.
It stung.
But I was blissful,
Because it assured me you were safe.
And now, goddamnit,
You might as well have lied.
You laughed at Hell,
And you dove right in,
Even when I told you it wasn't fun.
Why didn't I make you promise me?
Why did I trust your indifference?
Why did I trust the strong character,
I saw in myself,
When I knew how it could wither and die?
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.

I could have saved you.

If I had made you promise,
We might not be like this.