This is where I tell you the truth and where you pretend to listen. This is where most people will float by. This is where most people don’t even know you exist. This is where dreams flutter, like small specks of dust in the evening breeze. This is where the light fades into dusk, and the cat sleeps lazily by the feet of the girl crying in bed.
This is the end of the story. This is where the words “the end” go.
I have the tendency to put myself in rather awkward situations. It isn’t so much a trust thing as a test of how much can you handle? I go out on a limb and see if the person I’m talking to actually keeps on talking or they turn around and mutter that I’m crazy or something….and I mean I’m not telling them that I have tentacles for arms.
I’m just telling them the truth about me without beating around the bush. They would eventually know this truth if they got to know me for years and years. But I guess I grow weary of seeing part of a person at first-the part they want you to see-all the good shiny stuff that they let people see for a while. But there is that other stuff that they keep hidden till you are reeled in and can accept things more easily.
I guess I’d rather just be up front about all of it. Show someone what they are getting into rather than keeping it hidden away. I want that in my life, and it seems to be amazingly hard to come by. And it seems that the method is keeping me isolate.
I guess I could make a final decision a lot more easily if I wasn’t so convinced that all those times you said “you won’t find anyone who loves you like I do ever” you were right.
I guess it’s like they say…you accept the love you feel you deserve. I know I don’t think I deserve much for some reason. I set my standards in such stupid ways really. Has to have the ability to legally drive a vehicle and can’t have a warrant for their arrest but they can be complete manipulative ass wholes, that’s okay.
I’m not so sure I understand what in my life told me “you aren’t good enough for the majority of good people out there. You shouldn’t even try because you aren’t going to find them. And really no one out there really likes you anyway…” I mean when did that thought wedge itself into my mind?
I guess it would just be easier if someone truly was thinking…you know what you’re wrong because I love you…regardless of all that other crap. I’m truly terrified I’ll just never find that.
It is that time of year right before it rains for a few weeks; when we forget what clouds look like.
Wind propels the storms, and the few lucky ones make it over the wild mountain ranges. Those mountains are the protective outer casing keeping us dry and out of harms way, and in the summer they ignite when the lightening gets too close. They burn out of control, puffing smoke into the skies and turn the blue to green and yellow bruises. The burning lasts for weeks till more rain falls.
The creosote herald the storms. Before the clouds have found their way over the mountains, the small plants begin their transformation of the valley. They smell like rain, or rain smells like them. Either way, there is nothing else like them. The musty sweet smell engulfs the dusty land, and it is finally time to remember what water from the sky looks like. I have never known any other smell when it rains.
And it is with a creosote plant that I move across the country, to a land of trees and rivers and snow. It is with this small infant creosote that I will travel and on days when I simply can not stand the cold eastern shores any longer, I will sprinkle water onto the green leaves of the creosote and remember what rain smells like in the desert.