changes pt 2

You’ve changed, and I won’t ever know how it happened, when it happened, why it happened. It’s just a matter of fact.

How peculiar that is. And maybe tonight everything changes. I’m happy you did. I’m still tentative about tonight though.

quit you

I’ve recently discovered that the thing is, we’ve got ourselves all wrong. I felt like a genius, just then, and slowly realised how much effort would go into proving it. So maybe we can’t be bothered.

So it’s sort of a hopeless state of having to be where you don’t want to be, it’s dystopian dysfunction and you’ve understood that, but when you did, you had to turn in your hope in exchange for nothing. But I mean, it’s not all doom and gloom, right? Right?

I think that’s why you’ve always proved me wrong. When everyone else is crazy, so are you, but you’ve always been the only one to make any sense.

algorithms

Facebook appropriately suggests we become friends. Apparently we have a couple of mutual ones, and I just visited her city. Of course we should.

I haven’t thought about her much. But it hit me that she’s the only comparison. And now, that makes me wonder where I fall short.

girl, interpreted

I nervously twirl my ring around my finger as I sit down next to you. I have this feeling of owing you something that I actually don’t, and I have to remind myself.

There’s an innate passive-aggressive way of dealing with these things, like that’s what we’re used to. Like that’s our main form of communication, even though we have a choice.

I’ve lost count of the many ways you’ve jumped to conclusions without me. And I try to remind myself how that usually plays out. I wonder if you’re aware.

At a time, we were running away. But I’m unsure where to or from what. Do you think you know me?

So as I sit here next to you, wondering what to say, I come up empty. If you conclude, then what is there left for me to say? Do you even care? I think the answer to that is why I’m lost for words.

soundtrack

Sometimes, when I’m walking down the street, a song comes on and becomes the soundtrack of my mind. It’s the rare sensation of music hitting the moment as if it was tailored for it, somehow expressing every little thing you’re unable to say or shout out or cry about or feel proud about, but you can just listen and walk in that feeling as if the world revolves around you. Which it does, come to think of it.

Today, I walk through the white forests again, and I hear the faint sound of water streaming far away. I imagine it, half frozen and streaming through flaky ice, almost solid in some places, narrowing and struggling to pass through. Like me and you. I hear the sighs of trees under the weight of wet snow, leaning ever so slightly to the left or right, waiting for spring to rejuvenate their veins once again, to stretch and moan toward the sunlight with green spuds yearning for warmth. The distinct sound of snow underneath my feet, crackling beneath me as I walk across the open field and the chirping birds, the ones that stayed behind as a blanket fell across our woods. I feel calm. Maybe mindful is a place to be, out here.

raison d’être

The lake breaks into ripples as I dip my toe in, and in an instant everything has changed because of it.

Every time I try to wrap my head around that, my mind explodes and implodes simultaneously, like I’m trying to understand the reason, the universe and everything, but there’s nothing to grab hold of and I could just keep falling into nothingness forever except I’m not going anywhere. And nothingness doesn’t exist yet.

I remember the feeling of chasing her through these woods, reminding her how this wasn’t a game, trying to reason with her expectations of how people are. I tried being bare and honest, telling her everything upfront as an experiment caused by my experiences - I guess that’s what we keep doing to help ourselves move forward. But it didn’t work. I decided to move forward while she stayed back, and I must have left her behind.

Sometimes life was like a movie and we were the starring cast, the softness of our togetherness a comforting backstory, the dramatic clashes had no comparison, and when we tried explaining it to someone who hadn’t been watching, the words got lost in slow emotion, something that seemed so meaningful as it played out across the screen became useless words to explain feelings that couldn’t be seen. And then all that mattered were the words, and they were what weren’t enough.

I was becoming more selfish as I tried to fit my needs onto her life, it was a size too small, I pulled and tugged until the seams were ripping and her bones were exposed, until she couldn’t breathe. I never once gave her any credit for being her

So here I am, watching the lake ripple, taking in the consequences of my choices. Would I hit rewind if I could?

little things

Maybe love is in the little things, like how I looked at the bowl and fork on the counter and smiled, assuming you’d given him a fork like you would give me a fork to have ice cream because maybe he would naturally prefer it like I do.

Or maybe it was just the closest thing you found. I won’t ever know, and how many of the little things are love?

calm waters

I always imagined myself on a boat.

I don’t know what draws me to water, the sea, but I suppose it’s one of the greatest mysteries we know. The sound of it is soothing, reminding us of our beginnings, all sounds are muffled and the loudest one is your own, gently wrapped into waves and currents like a womb. You sound far away and close at the same time, and you focus on the strange pops of air bubbles escaping your lips. Every thought is tucked into a blanket of cotton, comfortably protected. I emerge to the surface, and climb back onto the deck, and as the sun warms my skin the waves rock me into deep quiet sleep, quietly whispering lullabies from the depths below.

Then at the same time, it holds so much power, a roaring loud force, unstoppable to anything in its way. Unforgiving and brutal, it has no regard for your insignificant existence compared to everything else. It can tear you apart, and that feels familiar too. It’s the perfect analogy of life, and it is life.

Every living thing the water holds has become weathered, strong and resilient. I’ve spent hours studying the alien beings I’ve found below the surface. I went swimming among large schools of exotic fish in Bali, and I was terrified. I was an outsider in their world, and they knew every part of their surroundings. I knew nothing. I felt humble, and so out of place. A visitor in their world, trying to blend in, and they found me out. They brushed against my legs, making fun of my frail skin and insufficient physique. I wanted to be like them. Like a fish out of water, they say. Like a human in the ocean would be just as good.

So I imagine myself out there, on a boat. I have a dog named Jack, and he has a tiny red scarf and he loves swimming. We travel the world together, just the two of us. We swim and we sleep, we get our asses kicked by the rough storms and we bathe in the sun in calm waters. But you always said I couldn’t make it out there on my own.

grey / graphite

When I open the door you look like you’re surprised to see me, even though you rang the doorbell. I smile to myself, wondering how that’s even possible. You brought wine, and I find it funny that it’s a white when you should clearly know I don’t particularly like it. I guess old habits die hard.

Come in, I say and follow you into the living room. I’m always weirdly nervous the first few minutes, as if it’s the first time we meet although we’ve met about a hundred times by now. Is that a bad sign? I don’t know, and I forget as soon as I think it. And then the nervousness passes like it always does, and we’re old friends again, sitting opposite of each other in this giant couch. The only notable difference being we’re on a date now. I’m not sure how that changes anything, but I can feel that it has. Suddenly, the things we once shared openly is part of an elegant dance of avoiding subjects, and we are blatantly flirting in all the places where we once hid the desire to. It’s oddly liberating, and awkward at the same time.

We spend the night getting reacquainted, and it feels like watching a movie for the third time suddenly seeing hidden messages in the silence between conversation. There are many things I realize I haven’t even thought to ask, and it was all for the sake of protecting our frail hearts from exposure to this possibility, so afraid it might not end well. Do you want a drink, I say when you look like you’re about to decide if you should be leaving. You ask what’s on the menu, and I rummage around in the cabinets trying to find a plausible end result. Cuba libre! I exclaim happily when I find a lime in the depths of my fridge. How exotic, you say sarcastically with a raised brow.

As I gather the impressive list of ingredients, I remember my Cuban playlist and press play. I pretend to salsa with the bottle of rum pressed against my chest, and you look at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world. Dance with me, I offer you my hand and pull you up from the couch as you accept. Our clumsy merengue will win no first prizes, as we wrestle through which one of us is in lead. I finally twirl out from our dance, grabbing a lime and splitting it in half with a graceful move and I turn around expecting to have humored you. But your face is suddenly clouded by thoughts of something else. What?

It’s always a surprise to me when we move from love to disdain, how quickly emotions can be flipped through as if it was a sketch book of running stick figures. Running, running, running, tripping, falling, falling, down. I didn’t see it coming, but once again I am confronted with a thought that had escaped me, a blatant disregard of human emotion on my part. As you share your feelings, I can feel my brain overheating, an annoyance of being misunderstood. How can it be that we have shared the same experiences, but in two different worlds? How can I have misinterpreted everything so wildly that it ended up doing the opposite of what I expected it to? I can’t help but express that, and as I do I can see the clouds on your face shifting to storms.

Your voice grew louder, and suddenly we find ourselves in a war of words, arguing who’s entitled to feel worse. I’m pressed into a corner, and when I feel like I can’t escape I shut myself down - I can hear myself inaudible, my face turns from animated to stone, closing off any attempt to jab, turning your loud words into muffled mutterings while I disappear into my head. It takes a few moments for you to realize I’ve left and when you do, you’re livid. You growl, you yell, you pull at my arm and you shake me by the shoulders. You pick up your glass of wine and throw it at the wall above my head, pieces shattering and drops of liquid showering my skin as I remain still like a statue. I’m watching you from behind my wall, trying to figure out how to tear it down but I’m stuck. I feel a sensation of panic as I realize you’re about to break into pieces, and I want to touch your hand, I want to calm the storm but I’m frozen. You stop and look at me with such sad eyes I’m afraid we’ll drown. Then you turn and walk out of the room, I can hear you put your jacket on and curse under your breath as you open the door and walk away. And I am relieved that you won’t have to stay.

---

I ring your doorbell and stare at the floor. The smallest part of me hoping you won't open it. I question why I'm here, why I can't stop coming back. 
I'm bringing white wine as a joke and assume it will get lost on you. 

You open the door and my heart beats faster. I'm surprised at how little emotion you show, you face is blank but you say all the right words. I wonder if you forgot we had plans tonight. 
You invite me in and I walk through to the open livingroom. I feel you following me as I look for a place to sit, hoping wherever I choose, it's not your favourite spot. I don't know why this matters. I guess I don't want to disrupt whatever you need to be comfortable. 
So I walk around looking and pointing at things on the walls until you choose where to sit first. 

Within minutes, we've fallen into conversation. Words flow too quickly out of your mouth as if you've thrown away the filter. Some opinions seem more like opinions you want to have rather than feel, but there is something very real and familiar inside you. I can't put a label on it but I feel it too. Why don't we ever talk about that? Are we afraid we wouldn't survive it? Would it shatter the illusion or just kill the mood for a moment? 
I'm beyond relieved when you disrupt my spiraling thought train by offering me a drink. Of course I want a drink. "What's on the menu?" I ask. 

"Cuba Libre!" You exclaim as you rummage through your fridge. I'm surprised you manage to find a lime between the dozens of perfectly accounted for beverages lining the shelves. 
I gladly welcome the opportunity to stop thinking now as you attempt to salsa with the bottle of rum. Cuban music fills the space around us and my heart swells. "Dance with me," you say as you offer me your hand. 

We're unaware of ourselves as we dance around the room. You pull me closer and I willingly fall into to you. The room blurs as you spin me around and around. I'm dizzy now and losing my balance. I anticipate to feel your hands catch me but instead, I feel your nails dig into my back. 
You spin gracefully away, seemingly unaware or unconcerned. You focus on splitting the lime as I stand there waiting to understand what just happened. 

"Why did you do that?" I ask. 

"Do what?" You reply, as you turn to face me with a confusing and proud smile. 

"Why did you dig your nails down my back?" 

"I didn't. You did that." 

"What?" My voice is louder now with impatience. "What is happening?" 

"I don't know. You're being ridiculous and accusing me of something I didn't do and it's hurtful." 

It suddenly seems like there is a stranger in the room. Waves of anger and sympathy overwhelm me and I don't know which one is more appropriate to act on. I look at you, desperate to understand. I see my anger reflected in your eyes. "Talk to me!" I yell. But you've already left. You don't hear me anymore. 

It wasn't me looking for an emergency exit, it was you, showing me the door. You never even gave me a chance.

meanwhile

Clarence walked around to the front of the car and jumped up on the hood. You know, it’s so like you to answer a question several years after I asked it, I said mockingly.

Then I bet you’re glad you’re still around to hear it, she replied without flinching. I kicked her shoe and laughed, although the topic was quite serious. But she was right, I was glad. We’d been on this spontaneous road trip for just shy of a week now, and it all began with a sullen argument over some misplaced towel. We had decided a few months prior to solve any difference with an act of spontaneity. The first suggestion would be the rule to follow. It would almost turn into a game, a distraction of sorts and an ideal opportunity to clear the air of lingering disputes.

This particular event had always made me feel so stupid, like I was completely missing the point of something I should understand. And the simplest way to try, was to ask what happened - but it would result in an impressive ability to avoid the subject. I was a bullet and she was an agent in The Matrix, dodging in slow motion while I was dumbfounded by how the world was nothing like I had always imagined it. So I had stopped asking, and as time went by, it seemed like another misstep.

I guess what I still don’t know is exactly how it happened, I say, jumping onto the hood with her. The weight of us made the thin metal sway slightly, making a deep sound of uncomfort. It reflected how I felt, almost like I didn’t want to know. I think I was just too scared to hear the answer. And maybe she knew, cause she didn’t speak. She just stared at her hands in her lap, fidgeting with the keys. I wanted to grab every bit of why and throw it into the vast field behind us. I wanted to make sure it would leave and never come back, although I knew that wasn’t possible for me to do. At the same time I felt like it was her moment to keep, as if I wasn’t supposed to feel any ownership to the choice of whether or not she should have experienced it.

So I just move my hand closer to hers, resting it on her thigh. She lets her index finger trace my heart line, and as she made her way toward the top of my palm I let our fingers intertwine. Her hands are cold and mine are on fire.

I just wanted her to know how strong I think she is. How proud I was of her for coming up above water, how she had done what I could never do. How her thoughts have meant so much to me any time she shared them, and that her perspective is unique, both then and now. It’s a rare thing to move someone the way she moves me.
We sit in silence for a little while longer while the car stereo plays terrible country music, lonesome nights and a dead dog named Ted, and I eventually ask if we should go back home.