Packets

Four packets of sugar. No, five. Five will turn to six soon. This is endless, this tea pot. If this tea pot continues to give and give, I won't object. Not at all. Fill me up. Something should fill me up.

Wait.

I can't drink this anymore. I'm full. But I was always full, wasn't I? I was trying to make room, I was looking for something to fill a gap that didn't ever exist. I am not a piece of a person, and I haven't been for quite some time.

Is this what loneliness has done to me? I created a hole I didn't have, and tried to shove something to fill it, but it just can't be that way! None of my fillers will fit! Not that "friend", not that new habit, not a new style. Nothing can fit a hole that doesn't exist.

I was searching voraciously to be redeemed and to be made new, to be a person no one could recognize, all the while being dragged under the waves. I know who I am much too well to try to change into someone I'm not. I guess my subconscious just knew about it before I did.

You can't be someone you're not. "Sometimes the best way to love someone is to let them go." Sometimes, the best way to love yourself is to let go of what you think you need, you think you have, you think you deserve, and realize that you can love people for exactly who they are, even if THAT is not what you want at the time. There's something real and different about love that isn't what you are looking for or what you expect because, honestly? We don't get what we're looking for, or what we think we deserve. We get what we get. You can't force a square to be round, and you can't force those who walk into your life to be someone else, someone you envision. Love them, or be brave enough to let them go.

And the thing I yearn for the most is the thing I will never get: an average, normal life. You know why? I'm neither. As much as I struggle with that, as much as I hate it...I am neither normal nor average. I'm going places...or I'm trying pretty hard, anyways. I love more deeply, yell louder, laugh longer, and cry harder than almost anyone I know. Life is...it's enough for me, because I make it more than it is. I feel life completely, unapologetically. I can't be normal, as nice as that might seem.

Ok....

Ok....

I'm back to my tea. I'm back to this place of crowds, of roaring whispers, of knowledge and of work. I am whole, totally me, quirky, original, weird. But me, and totally me.

Maybe, though. Maybe there's a little bit of room, here, where I am larger than life...for you.

What the Marianas Trench has to do with Me.

The deepest point of the ocean is the Marianas Trench, which is almost 7 miles deep, covered entirely in water. If you got even halfway down in this watery canyon, you would be crushed by the combination of atmospheric and water pressure. Incredibly, life exists at the very bottom. Yes, we have been able to explore, which really denotes how there is not one spot that we can say is truly untouched on Earth.

Besides being a trivia fact, this is automatically the image I think of when I think depth, and life, and reality. I grew up next to the ocean, so most of the facts that I learned at a young age had to do with marine life and tides and wave patterns. One of the best lessons I learned at a very young age was phrased as a warning, "Never turn your back to the ocean." In other words, life is incredibly unpredictable, so use your sight and whatever wisdom you have to prepare for it, and that's really all you can do. You can't stop the waves from coming and knocking you over, but that doesn't mean you avoid plunging in, as we learned in many undertoes, riptides, and failed attempts to body surf. We were kids: stupid, forgetful, and happy.

The Marianas Trench has always fascinated me for this reason, since the ocean is such a big piece of me. Whenever life seems overwhelming, but incredible in how much one human can experience, I think of this place. It's scary to be human. It's scary to cry for no reason, to be overwhelmed with someone's kindness, and to feel completely eaten up in those feelings. It's scary to trust someone, and it's scarier when you have no one to trust. I have always wanted to experience the trench, just to be afraid, so afraid that I wake from the stupor that I feel I am often in. To be over that deep, deep hole, an unsolvable equation, and marvel at its incredible depth, and how that depth barely touches the depth each person has to feel, feel...everything.

I crave humanity, because it is so real and it must be the only way to feel alive. What is it, to crave humanity? It is to crave everything that makes us...be able to feel. To feel awful and to feel wonderful, it is all humanity. And I know that I am alive, that I have a pulse, when I am most ridiculous and shouting meaningless sentences, but also when I am able to be right next to someone as they experience deep pain, then realize that they can survive their worst nights. I am the hand they hold, and the strength they draw on. It seems strange even to me, to say that this darkness makes me feel alive, but I guess it is the ability to be resilient that is my favorite human trait. The ability to be stupid, even. To be rash, spontaneous, to run head-on into embarrassment and certain risk, but to not care. THAT is humanity. To see the deepest trench in the world, and to be scared out of my mind of the depth and the crushing potential and to still want to be there and absorb that fear? I can't imagine anything more human.

Sometimes, when I am feeling very elementary, I metaphorize myself as the ocean. Sometimes, I am on the shore, not willing to go beyond the surface. Other times, I am in complete, stormy chaos, and still other times...I am at the bottom. I am my deepest trench, overwhelmed with the reality that this wonderful and terrible world is.

I guess...everything has been feeling very real, lately. I'm not explaining myself very well, but I believe that that is where the power of this moment lies-it's inability to be explained. Last night, I started crying over something seemingly small. A sweet gesture, inarguably so, but nothing earth-shattering...but it was so real, and so what I needed, I couldn't stop my visceral reaction. And really? I don't know why I cried. I can figure it out, but from a girl who never cries...it felt truly amazing. Those tears were my ocean, my salt water healing.

It felt human.

It felt alive.

And, as much as I am trying to avoid rambly, diary-type posts...I can't help but share this one. Maybe it's frivolous of me.

Maybe...it's just human.

Loss

So. I see this is your first time dealing with the worst news. Not quite the same as bad news, is it? Bad news lets you keep standing, or maybe you sit down. I hope you were sitting when you heard this one. The worst news never gave you a chance to stay upright-it took the ground away from you as cruelly as a sudden sinkhole.

A sinking feeling? Sure. A daze? Probable. Sobbing with dry eyes?

Always.

The worst comes with the shoulds.

You should be upset, in public, in front of judging and bitter eyes.

You should accept the forced graciousness of those around you. They are being selfless for YOU.

You should act slowly, shuffling, hurt, proper, restrained. Keep your anger. Keep your confusion.

Keep

Your

Fear

Away

All I ever wanted to do was lie in front of that altar and cry, cry for hours, and demand a reason. All I wanted was SENSE, and all I got was whispers and black and a pervasive mist that Friday. The sun, at least, didn't dare mock me.

I hope you have rain. You can blame it all on the rain. Rain brings heavy hearts and wet faces, right?

"At least" comes next.

At least you weren't right there.

At least you got this time, this time.

At least it wasn't sudden.

Because I can PREPARE to have my own mortality shoved in my face? I can PREPARE to have to deal with everything that is swirling around me, but be deemed the strength here? And I can PREPARE to feel like the roof just fell on me, but look ok for the benefit of people who don't care in the way you do, in a way no one can imagine?

I can prepare?

If I had lived the past 200 years, I would not be prepared for this punch in the stomach.

You will want to cry, and that's fine. You will want to curl up and hope you disappear, and that's fine, too. Change out of your Church blacks. Don't ruin your nice shirt.

You will want to scream in rage and confusion and pain.

But don't. It is part of the human process to not be allowed to release the pain you are feeling. It is normal to hold yourself back, for the good of others. It is...considerate. It is a terrible thing, what these customs do to our souls.

Most of all, you will feel alone. No matter how many people pat your arm or offer you water, you will feel like the last person left on the planet. No one can understand. No one can walk you through this.

But, that feeling will fade. One friend will call. Another will leave a note. And another. The less of a stone you are, the more you will notice. And your facade will crack.

And, eventually, it will all rush out. The real tears and the held back screams and the weight, will come out. It might take a week. It might take a month, or a year. But it will happen.

And in the meantime, you aren't alone. That's what I remembered. The good times produce friends, but the worst times illuminate friendships. You might even gain clarity, as I did. I won't bother telling you to feel grateful. You aren't capable of it, not now.

Death...changes people. It changes things, as well. It makes you see that 80 years on the planet is nowhere near enough, and the more you waste, the less time you have to be ok with being a human, being alive. Isn't that what the journey is? Coming to grips with the gift and the curse that is being given a life as a human, and making sure your 80 years did some good. The best thing that death has done for me is remind me that every good thing I do, is not a means to the end, but an piece of something that will someday be illuminated as beautiful. Death is horrible, but it is also a celebration of something we are given for no real reason. Life, in fact, is not a race to the end. It is every day you see something incredible. It is every relationship that gave you acceptance and love. It is feeling the deepest emotions, and knowing that you are the only species that can FEEL, feel terrific pain and extreme anger and incredible, indescribable bliss. That is what death, to me, really was: a reminder that nothing is stupid or not worthwhile, if one day, someone else will want to cry by my photo, cry because I did something for them that no one else ever bothered to do.

You cry because you loved. And you don't stop loving because it's risky, but you gather as much as you can, in hopes that someone will someday cry for you.

That is life. That is death.

And this? This is a funeral. Remember your somber. Your straight face. Do not laugh at the priest. Do not fall asleep during the 4th eulogy, because you are so tired from crying instead of sleeping last night, and this man has a monotone and that church is stifling and you don't even know what you are doing, with your youth and your LIFE, at that place.

Aren't you a blessing? You brought life to the funeral. I have been told that, before. Youth is a gift you give to others.

Remember your training. Remember your civility, your maturity, and your subtlest body language. Remember that this is not about you, as it should be, but about making everyone else comfortable. Remember that this is a social rite, not a true expression of emotion.

And, remember to celebrate. Celebrate the life you have. Celebrate the life you want. And come back to reality with something new.

That is death.

Redefine: Romance

I sip my tea slowly and deliberately.
My first thought: I loathe the word sip. It is an ugly syllable full of hissing and an wishy-washy consonant.
My tea is too hot to drink though, so "sip" will have to suffice.
I'm staring out the window at the cloudy day in front of me, myself a bubble of contentment inside my cozy bubble of my bed and my comforters and my pillows and my warmth.
And, I am alone. Romantically, alone.

Romance: the last definition of the word, in the dictionary, is about love. The others? About fairytales and a world of excitement and strong beauty.

My definition...is none of these. Romance is mystery, whimsy. spontaneity, and contentment. This place, with its perfect breeze and large windows and whispers of my past... it is romance, as much as my beautiful ocean place is romance.

Life is busy. Life is hectic and dizzying and often chaos. Simplicity can no longer bring pleasure for so many, because..we are too stimulated to appreciate the basics.

Honestly, though? Simplicity is my greatest pleasure. I couldn't be happier than when I feel the touch of someone I love, or am able to sit and clear my mind so that latent thoughts can rush in with this beautiful breeze.

Yesterday, I was granted the amazing luxury of a romantic and beautiful day. Was it spent with a beau? No, not at all, but it was romantic. I was able to take my time getting from place to place. I was able to eat things that had no nutritional value, but put a smile on my face. I was given the gift of intelligent, meaningful conversation in the most unusual places, real connection. I was given tender touches, perfect sunlight, and definite acceptance. Even the moments when things that are deeply rooted in the "things that hurt" part of my soul were brought up, I felt safe in my friends, and I walked away content.

Romance is the power to be perfectly content, for a little while. Everything makes sense for a moment, and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. Romance is freedom from everything that restrains ourselves from being completely unique and quirky, as we really are. It is the freedom to contemplate, or not to think at all.

I think my perfect day will be lifting my spirits up for some time.

Bottom

In, in.
I am bottomless.
In, in.
I hear you, I accept you, I love you, and I can give you everything I am for this moment.
In, in.

get out.

I have done it again. I have overwhelmed, overwrought, and certainly overextended. I don't even have the energy to expel, and fatally so, for now all I can do is lay at my lowest point and accept the pool of other people that I sit in.
The awful dreams will follow.
The nightmares of betrayal and hurt and everything I can't at all feel in this real life, but that my subconscious drowns in.
I drown here in all of you.
You have used me up, and I have let you.

WHY must you use me up so?

Questioning, I lay here, still as the air in a snow covered scape.

breath...breath...breath...

Tastebuds

"I miss you, and we’ve never met. And maybe we have, and I have no idea, but you aren’t here now, and I’ve never hated anything more."

This poured out of my fingertips today.
I'm pretending to not understand why, why I would think any of this, why these thoughts would appear.

But let's be honest.
Those words don't come from nowhere.
I am a girl cursed with timidity and a lack of experience in all things romantic, but with a heart bigger than I can handle. I have the capacity to love with vehemence, but lacking in the outlet of...you.
Any you, really. A you that wants to share a little slice of life, a long walk, real words and spontaneous moments. Spontaneity above all.
I know what melancholia is. I know what it is to miss something you have never had. Frustration is made all the worse when you so deeply desire something that barely exists in your hemisphere.

Eyes...glaze over. Tunnel vision...takes hold. Thoughts swirl and I remember a night that feels eons ago. I had run, run outside to feel the brush of my first snowflakes, falling gently around me, melting into my pulsing skin and burning curls. I opened my mouth, and those snowflakes singed my unrolled tongue with their fervent cold. In my hand, was my phone. I couldn't wait to tell you, the very real you on the other end of the airwaves, about how my heart was widening with the newest sight. Snow! I was bursting with excitement and naivete and I wanted to taste it, taste it all.

That's really what it was for me. The taste. Taste is like electricity in my mouth, and snow was something new. It brushed my tongue with something I'd never known, with cold and wet and melt. I couldn't describe it to you, I remember that. I was so happy to tell you about it, and you listened.
Oh, that taste.
It didn't taste like you. I didn't know that, then. You...you were all heat. You tried to be soft, but you couldn't help it-you tasted of roughness and urgency and kindness. And Nutella. You tasted of your newest experience. Did I of mine? Did I taste of snow, next to that ocean, that night? Everything about that night, that time, was new and full. I felt full, of everything you were giving me. And you gave me so much. And you tasted of all of that, and potential that would never be, and I was absorbed into you as you sunk your teeth into me. You ate me up, that year, in every way. I was spent, each night, from your ravenous appetite for my vitality and for everything that made me alive. You. Ate. Me.

And now, years later, all I can hope is that I tasted as new as I felt.