The Moral to the Story Is...

she thought she could love him
and life could go on
-but she couldn't do both-
words became fugitives in her heart
but were caught in her throat
-escorted back to where they belong
Because she's been waiting so long
that longing becomes her substitute for love

she confuses hope with dedication
and searches for compassion in his passion
but all she finds is
his corralled kisses, arranged in their pecking order

she seeks to siphon affection
but he's rationed misdirection
her heart is an open wound
-vulnerable to infection

and she doesn't see her destiny unfold
-that she's bound to spin out of control
unless she regains her pride
and realizes that he doesn't validate her

she's queasy inside;
she ashamed of the fact that
she lets him in so easily inside
she's trying to wean away
so she takes it in stride
in her journal and tissues
does she confide

swears him off
"for the last and final time!" she screams
but in reality her closure wouldn't be what it seems
she tried to act indifferent
but he knew they were scenes
he bided his time,
until she was about to burst at the seams
then he struck her with the "don't you miss me?" line
and she found her feelings stuck in rewind
she thought that she'd be able to resist his ways
but she would choose a known devil
over a foreign angel
because she preferred familiar frays

so the man who would complete her
was left out in the cold
he tried to embrace her
but she was under someone else's hold
so he became frustrated
and wondered why this was happening to him
he feared that she would leave
if he went out on a limb
"but she's not here to begin with,"
he reasoned in his mind
"she'd rather he make her his fool,
than for me to make her mine."
so he gave up and walked his own path
to embrace his destiny
while she gave up her chance at true love
for a lover who embraced apathy
actually

they began to fuss and fight
she spent days looking in his face
hoping to see Mr. Right
'til the day he hit her and she left
and after time passed

she wondered if he even missed her right
because in hindsight, now that she thought about it

- he never quite kissed her right-
something was there all along;

lying just beneath the surface:
she had made the mistake of burying her love
before making sure that

she could unearth HIS.

Dearly Departed

i bared my soul to you

and placed my heart at your feet

-but i mistakenly choked on my fists

as i swallowed my pride,

so i threw up my hands in defeat.

Love at Length: A Take on Long Distance Relationships

Long distance relationships are a beautifully idealistic phenomena. they can be maintained, (as i agree with everyone else) as long as both parties are on one accord. The advantage that you have when your relationship BECOMES long distance, is that you were blessed with the time to work on the foundation of your relationship face to face. You have a much greater chance of success if your relationship is based on mutual respect and love, -something that you cultivate in a controlled environment, i.e., each others' presence. The only variables in a relationship are the humans. Everything else is background noise. If you focus on your mate and they on you, then you'll be fine, -as long as you're determined to make things work.

BEFORE all else fails, pray about it.

It is very hard if you are touchy-feely and your longing for companionship becomes stronger than your desire for that other person. Thats when the breakdowns occur, where the idea of cheating enters your mind, and where your frustration about the situation rears its head. This can then be passed along in conversation, -where the phone calls happen less frequently and the "I miss you's" are few and far between. Then doubt enters your mind and you begin to wonder if they might be feeling someone else because it would make it easier to depart if its not your fault. Your mind can do some pretty amazing things, including self-sabotage. As long as your significant other remains on the horizon of determination, then the distractions of possibilities elsewhere and the strain of keeping things together will be dramatically reduced/done away with altogether.

My two sense.

Vulner-ability

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.

Herfection

She pushed me away as she pulled someone else close. She won't realize it until it's too late. It's not that I'm boring or predictable, -I'm simply not him. She will sit and deduce and surmise and postulate and pontificate about why things turned out this way. The answer will escape her, however, because when you keep someone at arms length, you have to settle for the hand out. While you dream of the warmth that the heart may very well be capable of, you lose sight that it is very well adept at keeping all knowledge of said warmth away from your very fingertips. Yet still, something in her wonders, "what if?"

She will see me and make small talk, -light subjects summoned on a whim to see if I miss her. She will ask me about family, how I'm doing, then she will cleverly slide in a question asking my whereabouts without seeming as though she is prying, something slick and ingenious like, "So what have you been up to?" and the ever sinister, "Tell me how you've been busying yourself." My responses will be generic, easily misconstrued for I have mastered the vague.

She'll cloak her curiosity in parties and meaningless dates with men who fancy self-branding, evidenced by their treatise on their favorite subject: themselves. They'll spend money on her left and right, but she will be emotionally starved. She won't ask too many questions, nor show signs of regret. You'll catch her daydreaming however, -off into the sky somewhere- wondering if we still gaze up at the same moon.

She'll convince herself that she was right in leaving; that it was for the best. She'll rue her decision, -constantly reminded by the barrage of pangs that she gets in her stomach when our songs play.

She'll go home to a nightcap; audience of one, and reach in her trusty drawer for her back massager "to ease out the kinks," or at least thats the story she tells. It's more likely that I receive a day-old belated birthday message. Oh, and the ink in which the word "stupid" was brushed across my forehead? That came from her well of plenty that one would otherwise refer to as "tear ducts." Her regret is bubbling. Votives are present. A bath is drawn, but her emotions never stay inside the lines. She was forced into her artistry, never consider hues until a certain "who" was no longer in the picture.Perfect. This is her blue period, - her Guernica.

Racial Epithets Among Cookware; Specifically Pots and Kettles

Ok, So I wrote a blog a little while ago entitled "Cowardice," to which I had every right to feel the way that I did and I am not taking back anything I said now. There is no renegging of my position on that, but I do have a confession to make: I am a coward. Only in one respect, mind you, but the impact of which may go to the very core of my being. I'll explain. Ready? here goes.

The story begins in the summer of 1999. During that summer I became enamored with the idea of meeting people over the internet and making new friends. One such friend and I began to gain very deep feelings for each other without ever having met. She was in Florida, I was in DC. We conversed often, and, the evidence of condensation behind my auditory faculties notwithstanding, I began to love her. Whoa, you say? How could this be, you say? "I'll explain," said the cat.

When two people meet over a medium such as the internet they are introduced into two likelihoods: the possibility of obtaining truth from an individual, or to be completely conned by the persona in which the anonymous individual purports. Because we had both experienced a lot of the latter, we warmed to the idea of meeting a real person who had a background similar to our own. Cue: fairy tale music.

So everything was so right. Our conversations flowed beautifully, lasting anywhere from 2 to 4 hours long, longing to spend more time talking, talking about any and everything, everything felt so right and yet so wrong, wrong because we clicked so well yet our distance was cancerous, cancerous to two people who believed that coincidence is merely the strobe light of fate. (Tangent: can you tell that I love chiasmus? Pause. Oh, and yes, this was a deliberate tactic to put a break in the "AWWWWWWW's" But I digress.)

So with everything so right and seeming so unfair that a person whom we truly cared about was so far away, we thought that it would be better for us to be simply friends. Welcome to Platonica, ladies and gentlemen: the land where jealousy is carefully veiled, and longing is consistently stifled. Population unknown.

So from the year 2000 to the beginning of 2004, things were cool. We went through our respective relationships and even divulged the intricacies and intimacies therein. We didnt talk as frequently of course, but our friendship was genuine. The transition wasn't easy and I won't pretend that it was, but it was necessary; it was needed. We became good friends, though. The laughter was exchanged and advice was freely distributed. Enter 2004.

We had talked about meeting face to face over the years as you would imagine, yet the opportunity failed to present itself. In the year 2004, I decided to go to Florida for Spring Break and finally meet her face to face. In the weeks before we talked more frequently about what to do when I got there, from activities to where I would stay, etc. Then the curveball came.

"My feelings for you have never really changed," she said. "Even after all these years, I still can't help but to think 'what if?'" What was my response? Well I was conflicted because the possibility of "what if" was in my mind, admittedly, but MY feelings HAD changed. I didn't love her like that anymore, and honestly I was hesitant to revisit that time. Long distance relationships are situations that I am wary to entertain because they are torturous to my affinity for proxemics. Translation: I like closeness.

Have you ever been partially forthcoming? Spatially honest? I have. In our conversations, I indicated that my thoughts pertaining to our visit would revolve around how things are left when I departed from our visit. In my own words, I said, "You're thinking about day 1 and the excitement surrounding it. I'm thinking about day 4 -when I leave, and, more importantly, how things are left." I did not want to start something that I knew I wouldn't finish. I knew in my heart that I had moved on, -I wasn't involved with anyone else at the time, mind you, but I simply did not want to get involved with her romantically.

The trip to Florida was very awkward for me. Honestly, I felt a great deal of pressure from this young lady. I found it difficult to freely enjoy myself because of the longing in her eyes that was so evident and the questions of when she could visit me in DC. Did I mention that I had dinner with her and her family on one evening?

Here is where I am wrong: I wasn't wholly forthcoming about my reservations. In fact, in my efforts to not be misleading through my actions, I succeeded in being so through my words. I gave her hope that maybe my feelings would change, when I knew this was unlikely. I put faith in the unknown, however, because I felt/feel in my heart that there was SOME reason as to why we were in each other's lives. I just didn't know what. Still don't. As you could've guessed, things changed after Day4.

Leaving was like a breath of fresh air. I did not feel like myself during my time in Florida and this was because I was treading softly for fear of doing something to lead her on. I don't know what it was, but something changed my feelings toward her. The friendship felt forced, it felt like a default switch. Almost five years had passed and I was searching for some rhyme or reason as to why things were and what they would be. I needed control that I would never have. I wanted things on my terms. Very selfish of me, no? One time she gave me the whole "People are in your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime" spiel and that maybe "our season was over." That was my exit, but I didn't take it. There had to be a reason, right? Tick. Tock.

So our conversations on the phone became more disinteresting and infrequent. We were obviously on two separate pages and our connection suffered as a result. The unspoken was the loudest it had ever been and I started asking myself if that moment in time was just that and if I needed to let it go. My answers came in avoiding her phone calls and not returning her voicemails. In the last voicemail she left me she said that it would be the last time she called. I wanted to call her back out of guilt, because I didn't want her to think negatively of me. But what would I say? It was not my intention to write her off, but I did not have anything to say to her. I refuse to make up any excuses about my absence. I refuse to lie about my noncommunication. How do you you tell someone the truth in this situation, -that they simply aren't a priority in your life anymore? If I knew that answer then I wouldn't be writing this dissertation of a blog, now would I? *Sigh*

Mal a la tete.