Lines, everything is a line. If only I knew how to draw them, if only I could capture their beauty. I could, if I practiced, my pen and pad nearby. Too far away it seems now. Too far for the strain of grasping fingers. The walls, hold me in. The bed chains me to a reclined manner. Lids half closed, warm in the late afternoon heat. The spattering of paint, mixing the different colors, yellow walls, green roof, clearly not a the work of a professional. A mustard colored drape halfway covering the window holds out the heat, lets in the light, allows for a view of the top half of a tree. The heat shows the sky to be a washed out blue, its as though it is dehydrating the sky, staring the onset of heat stroke. Oh jeez, I hope the sky doesn't succumb to the heat as most of us do. The music focuses my thoughts in a wandering, meandering, manner not unlike that of a river. Flowing, never ending, like eternity. Eternity, a frightening thought. Always has been.
I watch the walls they tell a story. "Someone liked to hang things from nails", they say. Why haven't I noticed these walls sooner? Strange how I study this room now. Strange I haven't before. I tried to see the outside world, the heat deterred me. I can feel sleep coming, not the sleep of a dreamer, but the sleep of lids shut, ears open. I think about her, I think about everyone, I think about the other hers, the new girls that come in and out of my life.
I am sad, but then again, I am also happy.
It is not the sadness of my youth, it is not the crushing depression I have dealt with since as long as I can remember. It is not brought on by the contemplation of eternity, it is not driven by discontent with myself. I have started to love myself lately. It is not because I constantly am running into road blocks with my plans. It is not because I am alone...well maybe slightly. It is because she is gone, it is because I finally have settled in, it is because I roll over in the night, arm instinctually aiming for her warmth but instead finding the unwelcoming touch of an ancient mattress. Do I miss her? Do I miss the relationship?
No.
She used to ask me what was wrong. I would have grown quiet, lost in thought, shake my head, say nothing. With poking, prodding, and the eventual lack of affection, I would relent. Never feeling any better. It was the feeling akin to someone reading your personal journal, your diary, your deepest thoughts, thoughts for which you feel are yours and yours alone. I have been told talking about your problems makes you feel better, and I realize this to be true. For me, however it is not talking to another person. It is vaguely hinting at the issues though strange and incoherent prose, taking the strained journey to a mountain top to ramble to the likeness of Jesus, or as I do now, watch a tree though the window, allowing for study breaks, as eyes move to the walls. Do I need another person to talk to? Do I need someone to tell me that everything will be all right, everyone will be happy, everything will work out?
No.
My mouth burned. Not herpes, not an STD, but what I assume about the same discomfort, brought on by the fire of spicy popcorn. So good, yet so painful. I allow the beer to stifle the branding fire on my lips. She watches me. I cough, smile, allow a laugh to slip out, met by her eyes brightening, her wonderfully consistent laugh to penetrate the throng of noisy drunk patrons. This popcorn is horrendously hot! The bowl is near empty though. I leave the conversation to tap the burly bearded waiter and ask for a refill. Her Spanish, slow and easy to my ears, starts again. I focus on her problems, I focus on her pain. Earlier she had almost cried, as I sat outside my work, sipping a beer, and enjoying my day off. I saw the need for a friend, I saw the need for release. "Call me, and we will go have a beer, and you can talk" I had said, my empathic words moving tears to a smile. Now, seated across from each other, at a small wooden table, the last one to have been unoccupied, we share stories, laugh, and I assure her she will be fine. I smile, my first conversation in Spanish about more, than girls, kayaking, or waiting tables.
As the night crept toward four, we walked down the street, my problems firmly in my head, hers' as well, now. I did not want to burden her with my problems, nor anyone, they don't keep me awake, they don't hinder my movements, but are more odd musings, and this strange sadness. I do not want to talk, I want someone to hold, someone to wrap in my arms as I close my eyes and wait for the dreams to disrupt the night. I had no time to process the separation of bonds, the ending of love, the shattering of beautiful foreshadowing. I had to leave. There is no escape here. For why would you contemplate leaving this place. A barrier stops from the expressing of one's self, allows for old talents, old abilities to mean nothing here. As I write now, I understand that my Chilean friends will have no understanding of this stories, no ability to understand my strange usage of commas, periods, and ellipses. I find other talents, I find other ways to help them, as they unknowingly help me. Cliché? Of course, but the truth is hard to hide. Empathy is not a skill, but savagely needed. Empathy allows for happiness, empathy is the first step for love.
My eyes close, the vastness of sleep allows for me to become lost. Allows for the afternoon heat to cover my body in an comforting blanket. If I could not hear the Chilean music downstairs I might think I am back in Oregon, far from home.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Dreams, Life, and meanings....maybe I should just go to bed.
It swirls, I feel the world tilt slightly, spin back into focus, the moment already seen, or has it? I step forward tentatively, testing the earth, feeling its momentum. Steady, I wait, hands loosely holding the bag, and apple shaped logo branding its origin. I squeeze my eyes, and open them. Clarity fills them. I think back to the night, I think back toward the days before this moment. I think back to the years of misguided wanderings, sayings, teachings, thoughts. This morning is like the rest, a routine I have fallen into with the ease of resting a weary head upon a welcoming grassy pasture. The delirium of senses focusing into normality, made labored by the dreams of the dark hours of sleep. I now walk confused, questioning what was reality and what was the conjuring of a swelled imagination. The dark eyes of the passers by catch the region above my forehead. The obscurity of the bright dandelion like cluster of hair upon my heavy head causes the stairs. I move past not allowing myself to study their faces, not returning their curiosity. I can feel the strain of an empty stomach upon my limbs, the steaming empanadas transferring their energized molecules into my slow hands. The dream stays with me now, I can feel its reality stir my senses, causing emotions all too real. I shake my head again and focus upon the blue horizon as it is absorbed by the small buildings at the end of the street. I check my pockets, feel the slippery texture of a 5000 peso bill, the dream was not real. I did not hand this reluctantly over. I did not attempt to vocalize those thoughts. My feet rush up the stairs, causing the noise of entry to echo throughout the wooden walls of the apartment. The T.V. is screen now mirroring off of my eyes, as the warm diverse taste of dough stuffed with care, slides down my throat, warming the strained walls. The dream focuses now. I close my eyes and see it clearly. The punches thrown, the words dealt, the love gained and subsequently lost, the memories had.
Its all a lie now.
Its all lost.
But the fear was real.
The unsettling feeling in my heart leaves now.
They all have the same theme, they all share the same line of thought, the same horrid reality: Trapped in the states, work starts in the morning, the ones I love back in Chile, the ones I love in the States, the conflicting emotions. Old love regained, new love lost.
Upon the sudden awakening to my alarm, chanting the same monotone voice, urging me to "wake up" I am lost. I am lost in my mind, studying the meaning. Someone once said dreams are the preparation for reality. They mentally and physically prepare you for situations you fear the most. As ancient man roamed the planes, his dreams were filled with escaping the predators he faced as he attempted to survive, his body was prepared. An evolutionary trait hard to deny easy to forget.
My dreams are closely aligned with reality, they seem more real than life sometimes. Reality? Reality is the perception of existence. Something with even the most basic philosophical student can argue to a fallacy. My perception of reality differing from yours, yours differing from his, and his differing from whom? Life is a mystery, a mystery which can never be solved, a case for which there is no ending. We attempt, we declare scientific discoveries which further our understanding, but in truth we merely nibble at our trapped limb of perception, hoping to escape before the lost blood, smothers our life. The exercise appears futile, believed by me to be so. But that is as far as it ever goes, beliefs. We claim to be scientific and hold no beliefs, but the attempt to solve the mystery to further our slight understanding, is to believe that the mystery can be solved. It is to believe that we can figure out why we are here, and where we go? The only absolute in life is that understanding will never be achieved. Our bodies know this, as they slowly loose cells, and limit our time to ponder, to question, to discover. What is the purpose of life? What is the point? Questions asked by a weary brain after a night of cerebral exhaustion. What would be the point, if one could never feel truly rested.
Love?
Empathy?
The point I find for myself now is my own, neither advice or an answer. Advice is greedily given, and rarely accepted. I purely ask questions and work toward a life which supplies answers.
She sits, back pressed against the window of the adjoining building. Her body shakes with the convulsions of deep emotions, hurt, the inability to understand why this sadness must be thrust upon her now. Her friend's hand tenderly rested upon her back, hoping to ease the pain, hoping to right the perceived wrongs. I watch the foam. Eyes, expertly now, making sure the right amount floats tranquilly upon the golden brown liquid. No people sit at the bar, no stories to be shared today, only the heat is my companion now. I wander out of the door, my eyes catch the scene to my right. The tear stained face, the glistening of the running nose, sadly the face is dearly familiar. A face I had seen the week before, with a smile, laughter easily flowing from our conversation. Sharp feelings of an unsettling and unpleasant nature sneak into my heart, the same emotions I feel upon realization in my dreams. Weights meld with shoulders, my feet feel tied to the earth, my mind feels itself shift into one train of thought. It has been nearly two months since this feeling has entered my conscious mind. I want to help her, to solve her problems, to hear her pain. My lack of Spanish bars these urges, slaps the helping hand violently. Work ends, I wander slowly, with feet feeling as though the slog toward home.
They look at me, their eyes sensing the change in mood, there actions slight but noticed. Dinner warm, offered into my hands, they say nothing, having learned something past loves had not. Later that night conversations with old friends offer an unnoticed relief to my over empathetic response. I smile, and head for my beckoning bed. The next day is as the rest, just as I could have dreamed, just as I always wanted. My home is here. My happiness is here, my dreams have followed me here, but I watch them now with a curious nature, their turmoil no longer plagues my heart.
Its all a lie now.
Its all lost.
But the fear was real.
The unsettling feeling in my heart leaves now.
They all have the same theme, they all share the same line of thought, the same horrid reality: Trapped in the states, work starts in the morning, the ones I love back in Chile, the ones I love in the States, the conflicting emotions. Old love regained, new love lost.
Upon the sudden awakening to my alarm, chanting the same monotone voice, urging me to "wake up" I am lost. I am lost in my mind, studying the meaning. Someone once said dreams are the preparation for reality. They mentally and physically prepare you for situations you fear the most. As ancient man roamed the planes, his dreams were filled with escaping the predators he faced as he attempted to survive, his body was prepared. An evolutionary trait hard to deny easy to forget.
My dreams are closely aligned with reality, they seem more real than life sometimes. Reality? Reality is the perception of existence. Something with even the most basic philosophical student can argue to a fallacy. My perception of reality differing from yours, yours differing from his, and his differing from whom? Life is a mystery, a mystery which can never be solved, a case for which there is no ending. We attempt, we declare scientific discoveries which further our understanding, but in truth we merely nibble at our trapped limb of perception, hoping to escape before the lost blood, smothers our life. The exercise appears futile, believed by me to be so. But that is as far as it ever goes, beliefs. We claim to be scientific and hold no beliefs, but the attempt to solve the mystery to further our slight understanding, is to believe that the mystery can be solved. It is to believe that we can figure out why we are here, and where we go? The only absolute in life is that understanding will never be achieved. Our bodies know this, as they slowly loose cells, and limit our time to ponder, to question, to discover. What is the purpose of life? What is the point? Questions asked by a weary brain after a night of cerebral exhaustion. What would be the point, if one could never feel truly rested.
Love?
Empathy?
The point I find for myself now is my own, neither advice or an answer. Advice is greedily given, and rarely accepted. I purely ask questions and work toward a life which supplies answers.
She sits, back pressed against the window of the adjoining building. Her body shakes with the convulsions of deep emotions, hurt, the inability to understand why this sadness must be thrust upon her now. Her friend's hand tenderly rested upon her back, hoping to ease the pain, hoping to right the perceived wrongs. I watch the foam. Eyes, expertly now, making sure the right amount floats tranquilly upon the golden brown liquid. No people sit at the bar, no stories to be shared today, only the heat is my companion now. I wander out of the door, my eyes catch the scene to my right. The tear stained face, the glistening of the running nose, sadly the face is dearly familiar. A face I had seen the week before, with a smile, laughter easily flowing from our conversation. Sharp feelings of an unsettling and unpleasant nature sneak into my heart, the same emotions I feel upon realization in my dreams. Weights meld with shoulders, my feet feel tied to the earth, my mind feels itself shift into one train of thought. It has been nearly two months since this feeling has entered my conscious mind. I want to help her, to solve her problems, to hear her pain. My lack of Spanish bars these urges, slaps the helping hand violently. Work ends, I wander slowly, with feet feeling as though the slog toward home.
They look at me, their eyes sensing the change in mood, there actions slight but noticed. Dinner warm, offered into my hands, they say nothing, having learned something past loves had not. Later that night conversations with old friends offer an unnoticed relief to my over empathetic response. I smile, and head for my beckoning bed. The next day is as the rest, just as I could have dreamed, just as I always wanted. My home is here. My happiness is here, my dreams have followed me here, but I watch them now with a curious nature, their turmoil no longer plagues my heart.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Pursuing moments
I find her now, a smile creeps upon my face, I suppress nothing, except the words I wish to flow from my mouth. Her face is perfectly framed, glasses hardly suppressing the classic beauty which stems from the depth of her look, the congeniality of her smile. The purples, reds, oranges, swirl across her face, reflecting warmly from in her eyes, eyes for which mine refuse to leave. Does she feel my heart bursting from my chest, a reaction of a primal nature, a reaction which is uncontrollable, yet I do not want to control it. I can feel my mouth not saying what my brain begs, the classic conversation of friends, the conversation of the arm around shoulders in the cold, not the conversation of the passionate blur in the night. She goes away now, enveloped in the crowd, the grinding, dancing on tables, hands running through quickly lengthening blond locks, not to be seen by here eyes, nor do I want them to watch, to judge? maybe.
Would I want to be with her? Would I want to hold only her hand, study only her eyes, feel only her warm touch?
No. Some days as the nights drag along with the brain jarring explosion of lights in the discos, photographs with girls, the random dance partner, the random short expression of passion, to find myself walking down dim streets as the sun rises from the still stunning mountains, I think maybe I would like someone to walk home to. Someone to share my life with. What would I share? Wanderings maybe, thoughts I wish to keep to myself. I reel from the thought of expressing the internal workings of poor judgments, and loose morals. To share is to give something I no longer wish to give. Something I can no longer justify giving. My romantic notions surely damaged, the cancer like growth of doubt slowing them to a non existence.
She smiled, followed by an expression of laughter foreign, yet addicting. My brain grew high from the auditory exaltation of approval. My Spanish was awful, yet I was still finding a way to entertain, to hopefully impress? The hours passed, with the gentle change of night to morning. My Spanish grew worse as oxygen left my brain, legs cried in exhaustion. I left, walking home, no number, only a first name, never planning to see her again, knowing I would. He face not leaving mine. What would I say next time I saw her? Probably nothing, but place the greeting of a kiss on her cheek then awkwardly continue to work, making sure not to glance at her table, for only fear would find my heart. Why the wall? Why the obstacles? Why the inability to pursue those I love, and the ability to have the unwanted, the random, the rich girl from Santiago, the student from Temcuo, the allure of unique hair.
The weary grow restless.
I slide the food onto the table, piercing blue eyes full on remembrance peering deep into my heart. "I really want to kiss you" I had said a week before, alcohol expressing a truth which I had only let out once before to her. She smiled, followed by a small yet welcoming shrug and "ok." I leaned in for a kiss. The next moment was one for which I live, one for which I close my eyes and attempt to remember in the purity of perception. I pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, my life complete. Why?
Her walk.
She walks, I watch intrigued, baffled, and with the confused nature of a wild horse upon eying a human. She walks with the stride of one who walks in a direction, not sure on where it leads, but sure of her progression toward it. How very unlike me. I walk not knowing if I maintain a direction, unsure of my steps, but continue to take them out of curiosity. It was her walk I first noticed, that day. I sat, head spinning from the first drinks to ever enter my hands legally, and ate a disappointing grilled cheese sandwich. She stood staring at the t.v. the blurs of a intense soccer game bringing the tired morning scene a shot of energy. I watched her with a slight curiosity, her features did not match those of the other Chileans. Her smile slid out occasionally and with a expected regularity. I held the water to my head, the cool droplets of fog rolling down my cheek. I guessed she might be German, Spanish, or some other euro traveler turner waiter, but much like many other times in my life, I was very wrong. Now, standing in front of a table, her dad and mom sitting to either side of her, I heard her voice, It shocked me, yet did not. I could have heard it before, but the music would have been loud. In the clarity of a searing summer day, the kind of day where taking a few steps feels like a mile, and sleeping feels like a chore I heard it for the first time. I turned my back to her and walked out of the sun, a smile forcing itself upon my face.
These stories, these brief encounters, must feel mundane to the observer, but there is a story behind every look, a hidden motivation? A darkened intention? Stories are told by none other than a sudden hand gesture to the right, eyes noticing, drawing the attention away from the moment. A change of words, a glace of the eyes, a deep look combined with a questioning smile, these say more than the mouth. I watch, I wonder, but I refrain from wishing. To wish is to remain stationary in life, to never get to the destination that you may reach. While I may fall in love with moments, I refrain from pursuing an eternity.
Would I want to be with her? Would I want to hold only her hand, study only her eyes, feel only her warm touch?
No. Some days as the nights drag along with the brain jarring explosion of lights in the discos, photographs with girls, the random dance partner, the random short expression of passion, to find myself walking down dim streets as the sun rises from the still stunning mountains, I think maybe I would like someone to walk home to. Someone to share my life with. What would I share? Wanderings maybe, thoughts I wish to keep to myself. I reel from the thought of expressing the internal workings of poor judgments, and loose morals. To share is to give something I no longer wish to give. Something I can no longer justify giving. My romantic notions surely damaged, the cancer like growth of doubt slowing them to a non existence.
She smiled, followed by an expression of laughter foreign, yet addicting. My brain grew high from the auditory exaltation of approval. My Spanish was awful, yet I was still finding a way to entertain, to hopefully impress? The hours passed, with the gentle change of night to morning. My Spanish grew worse as oxygen left my brain, legs cried in exhaustion. I left, walking home, no number, only a first name, never planning to see her again, knowing I would. He face not leaving mine. What would I say next time I saw her? Probably nothing, but place the greeting of a kiss on her cheek then awkwardly continue to work, making sure not to glance at her table, for only fear would find my heart. Why the wall? Why the obstacles? Why the inability to pursue those I love, and the ability to have the unwanted, the random, the rich girl from Santiago, the student from Temcuo, the allure of unique hair.
The weary grow restless.
I slide the food onto the table, piercing blue eyes full on remembrance peering deep into my heart. "I really want to kiss you" I had said a week before, alcohol expressing a truth which I had only let out once before to her. She smiled, followed by a small yet welcoming shrug and "ok." I leaned in for a kiss. The next moment was one for which I live, one for which I close my eyes and attempt to remember in the purity of perception. I pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, my life complete. Why?
Her walk.
She walks, I watch intrigued, baffled, and with the confused nature of a wild horse upon eying a human. She walks with the stride of one who walks in a direction, not sure on where it leads, but sure of her progression toward it. How very unlike me. I walk not knowing if I maintain a direction, unsure of my steps, but continue to take them out of curiosity. It was her walk I first noticed, that day. I sat, head spinning from the first drinks to ever enter my hands legally, and ate a disappointing grilled cheese sandwich. She stood staring at the t.v. the blurs of a intense soccer game bringing the tired morning scene a shot of energy. I watched her with a slight curiosity, her features did not match those of the other Chileans. Her smile slid out occasionally and with a expected regularity. I held the water to my head, the cool droplets of fog rolling down my cheek. I guessed she might be German, Spanish, or some other euro traveler turner waiter, but much like many other times in my life, I was very wrong. Now, standing in front of a table, her dad and mom sitting to either side of her, I heard her voice, It shocked me, yet did not. I could have heard it before, but the music would have been loud. In the clarity of a searing summer day, the kind of day where taking a few steps feels like a mile, and sleeping feels like a chore I heard it for the first time. I turned my back to her and walked out of the sun, a smile forcing itself upon my face.
These stories, these brief encounters, must feel mundane to the observer, but there is a story behind every look, a hidden motivation? A darkened intention? Stories are told by none other than a sudden hand gesture to the right, eyes noticing, drawing the attention away from the moment. A change of words, a glace of the eyes, a deep look combined with a questioning smile, these say more than the mouth. I watch, I wonder, but I refrain from wishing. To wish is to remain stationary in life, to never get to the destination that you may reach. While I may fall in love with moments, I refrain from pursuing an eternity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)