Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Love Bleeds
Love bleeds.
That's why you waited so long before you let it out for the first time; once you prick that hole in your heart and let a little bit dribble out, it's all over. That red, gooey mess of angst and badly written poetry slowly oozes out of its hole, leaving a bit less of you with every moment. At first it's just a few drops; a flutter of butterflies here, a lingering glance there. Before you know it the drops have become a trickle, and the lingering glance has become the schoolyard crush. The flow's expansion becomes exponential; trickles become streams which become waves. Your first crush sends the heart racing and the love rushes forth like a geyser; her cold eyes and colder laugh stem the tide, but for only a moment. Rejection is only a minor obstacle; it pauses the bleed only so that it can be restored, doubled in strength as soon as the next girlish giggle makes its way into your ears. This pattern continues, over and over, until---and here you tremble for a moment, uncertain, so uncertain, so afraid, goddamit, so afraid--her.
Her, her, her.
God, do you love her; she crushes you with a glance and melts you with a laugh. The hole becomes a tear, and the blood rushes out at a deadly pace. Her eyes, her smile, her hair, her legs, her curves, her everything---they consume you. Nothing else in the world matters when she's there; an apocalypse on the outside wouldn't come close to the one within.
She may return this sentiment---she may not; it doesn't really make a difference, in the long run, for this is the moment. This is the peak---the heart never pulses again as strongly as it does for her, the tide never rises again as high as it does for her.
After this, it slows down.
Not noticeably, of course; the second is almost as good as the first, and the third almost as good as the second. But with every new girl there is a slowdown; the butterfly wings flap a little less, the glances linger a little less.
The trickle returns.
You only have so much left.
Your love's bleed has slowed down to a dribble; the girls you dreamed of holding hands with in grade school are now the ones you wake up next to, struggling to remember their name. The eyes that once hurt you are now filled with their own hurt; the timing would be ironic if it weren't so damn sad.
Why don't you love me, she pleads.
Why didn't you love me, I reply, leaving out that bitter little addendum, when I still could.
Love bleeds, and I...well, I have been bled dry.
recorded at 6:15 AM
4 comments
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Wednesday, January 20, 2010
If you're reading this, you'll notice there's nothing on here.
I deleted it. I've said some stupid shit in the past, and frankly, it's starting to bite me in the ass; I am not the person I was when I wrote these things, and I don't want to be judged by someone I barely even recognize.
Thanks for stopping by, though. The wallpaper is nice.
recorded at 11:39 PM
3 comments
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Sunday, June 29, 2008
I like to fly
I like to fly. I know that's not the most epic, exquisite, or eloquent way to begin a new blog, but I don't think there's any way to better put it. I just...like to fly. I like the cheap fake leather seats and the even faker kindness of stewardesses. Nothing tastes better than a salty bag of peanuts after hours of starvation---starvation induced solely by the procrastination that always makes getting to the airport a last minute business and compounded by the greed that makes airport food a no-no---and nothing salves the resulting salty, thirsty agony like a cool drink of Coca Cola that for reasons not yet understood by science tastes tremendously better aboard a plane. I even like the things most people despise; the conversations with random, boring strangers give me a chance to practice my ability to impersonate Guatemalan missionaries, the whining of children allows me to better understand those friends of mine who are pro-choice, and the failed attempts of my co-passengers to seduce the waitresses grants me the comfort of knowing that I am not the only man on earth who will never get laid. It's the little idiosyncrasies of flight that I love, the weird cultures and traditions that transcend national boundaries and human reason, that are neither here nor there. A flight, after all, is a transition. It takes you from point A to point B, and unlike almost every other form of transport, it doesn't take you through all the places in between---it takes you above them, creating its own world, its own in between. It reminds me of the Catholic Limbo, really; a place of long, boring discomfort that will (hopefully) take you to a better place.
I'm flying over the mountains now; they call it the Sierra Nevada here in Limbo. The snow is melting off, leaving naked ridges of brown exposed for all the world to leer at. The blanket of white was a lot thicker when I was last in Limbo, back when my Point A was Danville and my Point B was Annapolis, which begs two important questions. Is Limbo melting away, and more importantly, am I returning---or did I never leave?
The stewardess is asking about drinks. I think I'll get a Ginger Ale this time; it feels like it's time for something different. Time to kick back and wait; knowing how these things go, somehow the bizarre formula they use to determine drink order will make me dead last again.
I really do like to fly.
recorded at 10:01 PM