The Inbetweener

From my little corner of the world, I think of you. I think of your stubborness to persist inside my mind. I know my little world is no different than somebody else's, but you somehow managed to subscribe to "my everything", that is, when I wasn't watching. For I would have had some trouble letting you in. You found your way in. And now I wish you found your way in the opposite direction. Oh, and it's summer and honeysuckle smells painfully a lot like you. Yes, I love how that honeysuckle fragrance wraps around me like you did around my heart. Gosh, how I despise myself right now for allowing you in. And then you left, my heart in your hands. Right now I'm not afraid of seeming pathetic because I know whatever I go through now is a piece of emotion and I've learned to accept the humanity behind emotions. I' m not going to rant and rave on emotions endlessly, but they deserve an individual treatment, don't they? While you might think reason lags behind, I have given reason its fair share. For now, I resume to those feelings that came to life through words.

You'd call on me with your mellifluous words, casting a net of deceipt upon my heart; then let me hang on to a sea of paper promises. But it's all right. I never truly believed you. My guess is that it must have been that inner voice, going beyond conscience that whispered "don't". And now I'm in an odd place. Did I half-fall for you? I'm not sure if I can paint the canvas of my fickle heart in the right colors. Finding the right mix of words for this old heart of mine is never easy. But my heart has learned the tough lesson of caution. And after all the rambling past, my heart could only half-fall for you. That in-between state. If only I had that teenage heart, than I'd know how to fall full-heartedly. But now I only fall half-way and it's tormenting in the sense that you never hit a bottom rock. It's as if my ability to love is a rock thrown in the pond, whose fall is at some point frozen in time. It just floats there in the semi-dark depths of the rippling pond. Somewhere in-between the kind, warm sunrays of your enthralling words and the murky depths of disappointment. It just lays there, in a stale stay. Helpless. For now.

A Taste of History

http://www.myneonhaven.com/neon_detail.php?ID=3552

Americans have a very sharp sense of history. And that bleeds out on the street, in the street plates and even on beer cans. I've recently made that connection after my U.S. History 1 class. Especially in   Pittsburgh. You get to walk on history, breathe history, you cross rivers soaked in history.You even drink history. Every drop of that Sam Adams is dripping with revolutionary thoughts. Or not anymore. Depending on your nationalism coefficient. But one thing is for sure: history is history and French, Indians and early settlers did a pretty good job writing it in the Duquesne Fort. So all of you drving through Duquesne Boulevard or throwing the cap in the air at Duquesne University carry with you an immortal scent of those times. Whether you are aware of it or not. 

Comfort Zone(s)

It's when you put yourself out there. Or when you just realize that you are not even disappointed when the supposedly fairytale scenario crashes. Well, I'm not disappointed which kind of means I didn't fall for my own dream, it doesn't really matter which one, a dream is a dream. I feel like I'm fooling myself, but sometimes that's exactly what you need to get through the day. I can't shake this feeling of disruption. On the one side, the dream, and the other side, the acknowledegement that a dream has few roots in reality and that in reality there's no regret for the non-dreamy reality for I didn't go all the way with the dreaming. Blame me and blimey for that!

But the dream pattern calls for some emotional state that I'll resume to call "emotional inertia", as if "dream", disappointment" stick together through some sort of mandatory glue called "emotion". How ridiculous to feel this way. Especially that I'm at an age where you're supposed to be detached from any dreamy states, which makes me assess it as less true. For now, I'll just stick to transition. It must be about some age-inflicted emotional transition, under the reign of my cruel conscience. My acuity is almost painful, I'm fully aware of the changes occurring within and by means of some odd fascination, I accurately record them. There!