Tuesday, July 12, 2005


Most people can learn to live without fear before they learn to love without it. I just discovered this phenomena, (you may assist in the popping of my collar NOW), and you'd be surprised as to how many people can be diagnosed with this ailment, -or maybe you wouldn't be. In my first blog entry, "Authorized Excuse," I rambled about my imperfections and how difficult I can be. I will expound on the method behind my madness, if you'll but allow me to be human. To be vulnerable.
The difficulty that I emanate when it comes to "matters of the heart" is one that I have struggled with for the better part of my life (yeah, I was the one in kindergarten exchanging animal crackers for smiles from the prettiest girl in the class). At times I am gung ho and am ready to plunge myself into the "any and everything" that resides in the land of possibility, but then I get struck by the pesky pugilistic debate between my conscience and my conscientiousness. Move over Jiminy Cricket.
I can be schizophrenic when it comes to feelings. I don't know if it was because I wasn't held enough as a child, or held in a high enough regard. My parents are vastly different in their approaches, as opposites tend to be. My mom is very affectionate, loving through embrace and words. My dad loves through discipline and advice, -direction if you will. They both pray with all their might. I have found that I love through a combination of both: affection and directional advice. Things get to be more mentor-feeling with the latter.
I am constantly up in arms about my capabilities and my decision-making and sometimes they simply govern themselves accordion-ly (cue Urkel). What's wierd is sometimes I listen from one side and respond with another. I can remember times when I have wondered how much of my heart I had to give to get someone, craving their presence and touch, and other times asking myself, "Why is she clinging so much?" My mood would shift with the effort of a pendulum, sometimes craving presence-other times needing absence, all the time feigning indifference.
My heart is the tight-rope walking, gravity-defying balance-craving part of me that governs half of my actions. My mind is the safety net that says, 'I can't handle the height of which I have ascended or the depths to which I am falling.' Cue: Brakes.
Sometimes I shrink back when I get too close; when the danger of the irresistible force of predictability and the immovable object of vulnerability meet in a heart-on collision. Have I been there before? Sure. It's like free falling, except its not the height but moreso the price that's too high.
I have a perfectly skewed view of the place we call LOVE. I have admired it from afar, -its bright and promising windows; its drapes of a "sky's the limit" blue; its door carved from the promises of pocketknives by listless lovers in oaktrees, -the handle of which bears a permanent imprint of my hand. While inviting it may be, I've seen the "Welcome" mat more times on my way out than in.
I'm a nomad in search of a home, and the distance has got me doubled-over, with no sign of a clone.

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