Lover

What I see of you? What I see are the spaces between your toes. I see the curvature of your earlobes and the hairs that are in your nose, and ears. I see the white untanned skin of your scalp beneath your hair. Where the muscles pull across your shoulders and grasp the bones in your back – I see that. I see behind your knees and the callouses on your heels. The arches on on your feet and the carefully rounded nails are the things that give you character – the things I love about you.

It's a Magical World

It's a dusty little room, maybe a few cobwebs in the corner, an old worn chair... It's not a story about me, I think that You should know that. If You know anything about me You know that I don't have an old worn out chair – it's probably leather or something, something that can wear well. You would also know that I don't leave rooms messy – that's how you know that this isn't a story about me. Regardless of the function of the narrator in this story, a man sits in that old worn out chair; he sits there not doing anything at all. He just sits. Sitting is a thing that is usually done in conjunction with something, You sit to eat, You sit to work or type- something, You sit to read, etc. The thing that is quite important is that this man is just sitting, not working or eating or even thinking; he sits, and sitting defines him completely at this point in time. There was a time when he was probably thinking. I'm sure that he had very important things to think about at one point in time – and in due course I will tell You about what it was that was so important – many things have passed already, and for our gentleman in the worn out chair what's important is that the events have all transpired and all that's left is nothing.

It is the irksome nature of the earth to create the scenes most beautiful when everyone could care less. You would be aware of the irony of mother nature's actions because I helped you to look at her a different way than everyone else; and so it is in this manner that it leaves a peculiar combination of silence and sunlight creeping across the floor, ushering in a new and beautiful sunrise and stirring through the little trails of dust that lead away from anything that breaks the uniform flatness of the floor. Normal people might not find this scene beautiful (and I feel like I'm getting hung up on this word - beautiful – the way that it leaves the tongue, and hangs about in the air for just a second and then disappears into nothing; the self-defining nature of the word is a mystery to me); normal people would find it boring, or maybe slightly disturbing that a man would sit in the dust accumulated over the years – but You wouldn't, I know that You could see something more. I always described things in too much detail, You said; I always tried to find the right word – or words; but here is a scene of a man who sits. There are no words anymore, there are only ideas. You see, I think I finally understand.

There are few things so lavish as the experience of meeting a fantastic and new person. The joy of spending an evening together, just talking, thinking and maybe doing nothing at all. So it was with our character, he met someone new, they took late-night walks and told each other everything that they hoped in the whole world, getting to know one another, to realize each others idealisms, to evolve and see the world from new eyes. This is the time that characters like ours don't keep there eyes open, they close them and savor the moment – they live in the magic of the moment; blissfulness really does lie in ignorance. But everything is okay, each breath is fresh, the air crisp and clean - joy comes easily. We accept things as they are, no problems insurmountable, no challenge too much. This is a time when our characters realize that they can both share in the ecstasy of living. They can find true pleasure in the trivial and contentment in the quiet. They were young, they were stupid – and they were happy.

There comes a point when a certain understanding is reached between people (if only we could hold onto the magic just a little longer – the slight uncertainty, the knowledge that we don't know everything about one another, the mystery and the joy of unraveling that mystery...). So it goes. Our character having come to this point, of course, realized it and made every effort to appease and endear his lover. It was the small things that counted – like tea and toast as she rose from bed, being careful to pick up after himself, even if his work was long and hard, taking the time to listen, going to the store together even though she didn't need help, having time. Not so much as to be oppressive, just enough to encourage, and propagate the idea that he was there for her, that her happiness came first in his life, that what she needed most would always be important to him. As two people grow close together though, or at least in the case of our gentleman and his lover, the little differences are finally uncovered. Maybe, he likes things done in just such a way, maybe the music she likes appalls him, maybe the way that she hums off-key gets on his nerves. It is still the peak of happiness though, and the gentleman lets a few things go, or she doesn't want to do everything his way, and to this he concedes and they try to move on, but the differences are exposed the idealism's are seen for what they actually are and a rift is there, it is small and easy to traverse but its quiet testimony stands implacable. You have to choose to cross the river, or chasm or whatever it might be – or choose not to; you cannot stand in the middle of a chasm.

And so we find ourselves back in the little room with the dusty floor and the old worn out chair. But this is before we left him last, this is the part were he is thinking to himself in a very concentrated way, his mind is unraveling the mystery and he sees the answer to the riddle. This is the part where he realizes that he did try to change himself, that he was willing to do the things he needed to make things work but the problem wasn't really in that, was it? The problem is that it was a one-sided assertion. You see, You couldn't release Your idealisms, You couldn't evolve and change. So our gentleman has realized that it is in fact You that cannot love, not him, but in this realization he knows that if he has to try again with someone else he will be trying to subversively change them, to make them realize that their needs are not the most important and that that same principle applies to him. The only problem is that by having a direction from the very start, by having goals and plans – the magic is dead; it can never happen. So what our gentleman realizes is that You have killed the sweet and innocent child inside him – that he is forever changed. And now we are back to the part where he just sits, and if you could see him it might give you pause, and once, maybe just once you would think about the others in the world; but I know better. The sound of your packing, and your moving and your cursing and discontent are gone now; there is silence – a world without you – a beautiful thing. What it all boils down to, what I really want to say to you is that you're just too dumb to figure it all out.

Strange Company

I'm sitting at the table sipping a wine that I don't really care for- it's fruity, sweet, overpoweringly simple and inelegant. I'm here with my roommates- talking (yes, me talking) with both of them; usually I only hang out with one at a time, they're too much for me - a pairing of convenience more than desire. The music that is playing is not to my taste; always something vaguely irritating, (I had a conversation with my friend once; he said that similar music interest should be a requirement for roommates) like country or dance-type stereotypical music. Somehow, though, it all feels right - the idea that we've reached the end, that we're moving on but we are comfortable with each other. It's this very weird feeling of everything not fitting all at once, and when we all realize it- it makes so much sense. Then we go our separate ways, the feelings lost irrevocably; we'll have forgot by morning.

Search for Meaning

I start looking in the kitchen. I look through the cupboards and above the fridge. I throw everything on the lazy Susan out onto the counter - then I pull the fridge out and look behind it. I move to the living room next; the TV is the first to move to the center of the room. Every inch of the cabinet that the TV sits in is thoroughly examined; empty CD cases and old videos are thrown into a pile revealing nothing. The hallway is bare; the closets never had anything put into them in the first place - I look at their emptiness. The storage room is a lost cause; I ignore it like always. The bathroom yields an old twisty toothbrush behind the garbage under the sink, and hairballs behind the toilet. In my bedroom I search under the bed; I clean there meticulously and often because of my allergies - but you never know; nothing. I pull clothing out of the closet, searching through the pockets as I go; there's a rubber band. Finally I pull out the books and start flipping through the pages, midway through I find an old letter that I was writing to someone that I knew I would never deliver it to; it's a sappy sort of letter exposing the ridiculous feelings I was having at the time. I read the letter over and over again - then I put everything away. Twisty toothbrush, rubber band, and a letter full of true yet sappy sentiments - I call the day a win.

Hope

She asked me what I hoped for, it was issued almost as a challange; I said I didn't hope - because they were never realized. Later on that night I asked myself what I hoped for, but in my mind I changed the question to what I wanted to hear: what I wanted. Want is more justifiable than hope, I think; we want numerous things, but we don't expect to get them - hope comes with expectations, and expectations often come with pain. I want a job that I like, I want a house, I want an attractive wife and kids but I'm not willing to set them on a pedestal. The wants I have are so much that I fear that if I actively pursue them I will only find myself crushed in the end. By not hoping for them, though, I crush myself - here and now.