Annual state of progress

We delude ourselves.
We delude ourselves into believing that there is something there when there is no evidence of it. We do this because it’s something we need.

Lately, I’ve been asking the question. Why do I keep falling so deeply into love in these relationships where distance or emotional availability is primarily a problem?

Distance itself makes it hard. Distance means there is no pheromonal interaction. There is no opportunity for oxytocin bonding. Instead, only words, intellect, and small acts are available. And while that may work for a time, it never works long-term.

Put another way, you can’t kiss a video call or make love to a voice. You can only paint the picture and while that can sustain for a time, eventually you need to be in the same room.

I can read more from 5 minutes with someone from body language and tone of voice than I can from a hundred missives.

On the other side, I have intense emotional relationships who, through circumstances or nature are emotionally unavailable to take that next step.
In many ways, those are worse.

Long distance is a dream that I am well aware of the hazards of. But here and still distant?

My heart and mind can’t seem to let go in those instances.

So why do I keep falling for people who can’t or won’t love me. Either because of distance or other factors? Why do I pick people who I can’t have?

Perhaps, I feel like I am unworthy of love, having failed to protect Morgan. Perhaps, if I’m with someone who is a hundred percent in it with me, my imposter syndrome kicks in and I feel like I’m going to fail and let down the person I love and doing so is anathema. And as such it puts such enormous pressure on, that no relationship could withstand it.

I don’t know. That’s where I am in my headspace now. Trying to understand my choices. Because, I can’t change the minds of those I still love but who’ve moved on without me. But I can change my future choices.

Thinking about endings and beginnings

I understand how people feel when they say they’d rather be alone.
I understand how they feel when they say they don’t want a relationship.
I understand when they want an uncomplicated life.

It’s easier to be alone than to bend for another.
It’s easier to act in the silence of your own thoughts than to think about how your actions impact others.
It’s easier to be, alone.

The closest approximation is to say that I feel sane. Clear. And I see how this feeling can be construed as better. Because what we tend to remember is the end of the relationship. We remember the pain and uncertainty. We remember that feeling that nothing is right nor will it ever be. We feel that torture and we say, “Never again.”

But….
I remember.
I remember feeling free.
Feeling like each day had greater meaning because I was building something. Something for us.
Feeling like I was growing as a person to fit into this dream.
I remember and I know it’s possible.
The most painful part is that I know it can work and not end in flames and agony.
I have proof.
It took an outside hand to take all.

So, while I enjoy this alone getting to know myself as myself, I know I can’t be like those who are eternally single. I know I’ll take the chance again.
Because, when it works, it is the most beautiful thing I can build. And I’m a better man for it.

Last night’s dreaming

I dreamed last night of clubs and restaurants where I found you. A beautiful submissive. Strong, intelligent and defiant. I had no interest in breaking you. Why break a spirit so beautiful? Instead, earn your submission. Strength, respect, joy. Showing you all that I am, accepting your choices. With you in my lap, kissing, I wake.

Only in dreams am I alive.

Silly tears

I hate feeling sad about things I can’t change. It seems a waste of pain to spend it wondering on what could have been. To spend precious time wallowing and crying. Yet, some nights my mind wanders to those who were but never was. Who said yes, but never touched. It’s impossible to know what could have been and yet my heart dwells on what was in the futile hope of discerning meaning. And in discerning meaning perhaps find a way back there. It’s a foolish heart I have. To hold onto love after the storm of it is past. But perhaps being this foolish person is just who I am. Perhaps, I have never learned to go lightly, and perhaps that’s ok. But it still hurts. I remember them. I remember what I felt. And what I still feel. Me and my foolish heart.

End of poetry month, 2018

Yesterday was the last day of poetry month for me. I hope you all enjoyed it. I did, indeed, find it easier to write this time around though that may have been more due to my emotional state than the ease that practice brings. In any case, I hope that some pieces were impactful. Thank you, dear readers, you make my work beautiful.

Memories are here to stay

You know it sucks. It sucks that I remember so much. It sucks that I remember how it felt to love you. How I felt when you said, I love you. It sucks to still love someone, because you can’t stop loving them. Not because you choose to keep that alive but because that’s how you are made. I remember everyone I fell in love with. Every person I’ve touched. Mostly those memories stay in the places I’ve compartmentalized them in. But the fuckers like to sneak out and I’ll be treated to a memory while I’m driving. While I’m talking. While I’m cooking. Some dance across me like light on a pond. Others bring me to my knees. Memory is a gift and a curse. Don’t allow anyone to tell you any different.

Remembering dreams: not always great

I woke from a nightmare.

I was in my childhood home. In it, there was a man who lived with his parents. He was both me and not me. Like I was riding in his head and knew what he was going to say but I couldn’t make any decisions.
He lived in the house and it was just him living his life. The whole time there was a vague unease. Like everything and everyone was subtley off. It seemed that this man’s parents flinched from him. Everyone he met seemed to interact kindly to him but all with a vague air of fear almost. And I feel it too. This vague pressing sense of dread fills every action, look or words.

He took his parents out for a drive. And he told them he wanted to show them a house he was going to buy. The father was in real estate and he knew there were no houses in the area up for sale and their fear ratcheted up. He told them not to worry, that he knows of a house about to be available.

He turns a corner in a street in my childhood neighborhood. And points out a large grey house. 2 stories with a covered carport. There are a couple of cars out front and a woman gets out of one. She is crying and has a bundle of red roses in her hand.
Someone from the house meets her on the driveway and they hold each other and cry. There are no ‘for sale’ signs on the house or any indication that it is or will be up for sale. It hits me and the parents at the same time. The only way to know that this house will be for sale soon is to arrange it. This guy who is me and not me has killed whomever is in the house. I’m shocked and incredulous. The parents are scared and less shocked. More resigned. Like this was something that they were hoping wouldn’t happen Again. Like they have been living with this secret monster for years. They drive home.

Then there is one of those jump cuts and the man who is me and not me is talking to someone on his porch. The parents are there but they seem like caricatures. I am no longer in the guys head. I’m watching in the third person and also feel trapped.
The guy who looks like me invites the guy in. He feeds him and paralyzes him. Informing him that his meal was his last guest and did he enjoy it. The parents seem to waver then like they aren’t there. Like I’m in this me/not me’s mind and he sees the parents but they aren’t really there.

He invites in people and kills over and over again. And I’m trapped watching him. I can’t wake up. One of his victims gets away. I, somehow, am then seeing through the victims eyes. I nudge the person to certain places in the house. Places he can barricade. Me/not me hunts him. And victim/me starts to panic. We close a door but it won’t latch and we put a small metal step ladder in front of a door, under the handle but the serial killer hits the door in such a way that it pops it open. We slam the door shut on his hand and he howls in agony. The victim opens the door and pulls the killer halfway in. He pounds the killers skull in with the door pinching the skull like semi hard candy until a part of it breaks away and there is a little boy version of me/not me. There is also a apparition of this person’s mother who talks to the boy. Telling him what to do.

I/victim run and we get away. As we run I, but not the victim, hear the ghost mother telling the boy to eat up. That he needs to heal and eating this brain (his adult brain) will heal him. Like he’s some kind of immortal monster trapped in some pocket dimension reliving his life and death over and over again.

The victim gets far enough away and I wake. Heart pounding. Full blown panic attack. From a nightmare.

Bound and bound

Life is not what we want it to be
But shapes form from what we allow
It’s not our desires and hopes that tell
But actions taken or not taken
Promises kept or broken
We are bound by chains and shackles we forge ourselves
No Jacob Marley or Ebenezer Scrooge
But links of allowance
We allow things to happen
Because it’s easier
Because we are scared
Because it is inconvenient to do something
All the while telling ourselves that it’s not our fault
That there was nothing to be done
Maybe in the moment the choice was limited
But some road not taken
Some throw of the dice not thrown
Or chance leaped to
Some point led to this choice
Sometimes things are truly beyond our control
The gears of chance grinding away
But mostly we have choices to make
Maybe all the choices are bad but we make them
We advance or fall with the steps we choose

Personally, I choose to fall in love. I choose to act with honor. I choose to keep my word when I give it. I choose to act with an eye to the humanity in us all.
I choose to love when it’s probably a bad idea. I’ve chosen other paths and lives and now I choose this one. This painful existence waiting for my friend, my person. Because a future without her would be spent looking over my shoulder at what might have been. And maybe this is the wrong choice. So I try to make one’s that are generally good while I wait and hurt. But in the end, we all must choose for ourselves.

We can help others if they let us. We can live and love with consent. We can do wonderful beautiful things. But what we must not do is create another link, another shackle waiting for things to get better.

May your journey find a road

I didn’t sleep last night. I can feel the weight of those lost hours bearing down on me. But I chose this, to stay up. And watching the clock, saying that old mantra, “If I go to sleep now, I’ll get 2 hours, get 90 minutes, get 20 minutes, get some caffeine and hope I don’t fall asleep while driving”. Then I read my email. I usually only check a couple of times a day. Because I receive a bunch, most of it junk. But like gold from silt rise the words of the blogs I follow. There really aren’t that many. I have a criteria where I have to like 3 pieces to follow them. That insures that they have my attention and time. And I read some posts and like and comment, in my sleep deprived brain zombie state. And I see someone’s blog has gone private. Someone who I like. And maybe this is the sleep deprivation or that I’ve been watching Legion, but I have this brief image of this guy dressed in black just thousand yard staring into the distance. And I know that’s me. And you know people have reasons, generally good reasons for going private, but I always hear Morgan Freedman’s speech from Shawshank Redemption ending with, “I guess I just miss my friend.” Sleep deprived me can be maudlin. But no less true. It’s like a light winking out in the firmament. And my universe is a little dimmer.