Along the Lines of a Letter

Dear Love,

I met a boy about a week ago. It’s funny, but I met him the day after I wrote the last letter. His name is Michael Loveless, and is a lineman on the football team and plays right field for the baseball team. He has auburn hair and brown eyes, broad shoulders with thick, muscled arms, and a smile that makes my heart flip. Standing taller than me with shoulders twice as broad, an incredible sense of charm, and undeniable self confidence, I thought he was everything I could want. We grew close, and quickly, and I started falling. It turns out that it doesn’t take long to become attached enough to have your heart broken. One week was all it took this time.

He won’t talk to me anymore. It’s as if I didn’t exist to him, as if I was never a part of his life. All because I wouldn’t sleep with him. He would try to say otherwise, but when it comes down to it, he wouldn’t wait, and I wouldn’t lost my virginity to a guy I had only known for seven days. It tore me to shreds to walk away, seared my stomach to see him turn away as I tried to hug him goodbye, made my heart stop as he left me, broken, in the streets, watching as he went back inside.

I wish you were here to hold me and tell me that he isn’t worth it. I wish I knew you so that I could curl up in your arms and have you kiss me, and let that kiss erase the heartache, because if you were here, he wouldn’t matter. If you were here, it wouldn’t matter that he has a blonde already attached to his arm, and it wouldn’t matter that I listened to “Almost Lover” and “Better Than Me” repeatedly during third period. He wouldn’t matter, if you were here.

But you’re not here, not right now. Someday you will be, but not right now.

I miss you. I love you. I wish you'd find me soon.

With Love,

Somewhere

Along the Lines of Yet Another Song

"Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy


Your fingertips across my skin


The palm trees swaying in the wind

Images

You sang me Spanish lullabies

The sweetest sadness in your eyes

Clever trick



Well, I never want to see you unhappy

I thought you'd want the same for me



[Chorus]

Goodbye, my almost lover

Goodbye, my hopeless dream

I'm trying not to think about you

Can't you just let me be?

So long, my luckless romance

My back is turned on you

Should've known you'd bring me heartache

Almost lovers always do



We walked along a crowded street

You took my hand and danced with me

Images

And when you left, you kissed my lips

You told me you would never, never forget

These images



No



Well, I'd never want to see you unhappy

I thought you'd want the same for me



[Chorus]

Goodbye, my almost lover

Goodbye, my hopeless dream

I'm trying not to think about you

Can't you just let me be?

So long, my luckless romance

My back is turned on you

Should've known you'd bring me heartache

Almost lovers always do



I cannot go to the ocean

I cannot drive the streets at night

I cannot wake up in the morning

Without you on my mind

So you're gone and I'm haunted

And I bet you are just fine



Did I make it that

Easy to walk right in and out

Of my life?



[Chorus]

Goodbye, my almost lover

Goodbye, my hopeless dream

I'm trying not to think about you

Can't you just let me be?

So long, my luckless romance

My back is turned on you

Should have known you'd bring me heartache

Almost lovers always do

Along the Lines of The Scarlet Letter

Nathaniel Hawthorne has an uncanny ability to make every sentence, every word, chalk full of meaning and symbolism.  Unfortunately for many, it is commonly found on the curriculum for eleventh grade students in Utah to dissect his words and find the deepest of meanings in the pictures he creates.  Personally, I love it.  I love the ability Hawthorne had to think and express well, everything. 

I had the strange thought in Sunday school that Cain is much like Hester Prynne.  God supposedly prevented anyone from killing him, but he wore a mark of his sin that was visible to everyone.  While he did not necessarily have a corporal punishment, he was forced to display his sin to everyone and live with that shame.  It makes you wonder which punishment is worse.

Anyways, as part of the project of reading the book, we are required to decorate a letter that stands for a particular weakness, sin, or shameful thing about ourselves.  As I was contemplating what letter to use and for which shameful attribute to display, I wasn't too surprised that I didn't find much - if anything - that I was ashamed to share.  The shame or embarrassment would come in the explanation to people I'd rather not discuss some of those attributes with.  I finally settled on one that accomodated most of my options, a blue, cursive "A."

Already it has been interesting to watch as people try to guess and understand the symbols we are asked to wear on our chest.  Prejudice and quick conclusions are drawn up unrightfully, and each person in AP Language is judged according to their letters.  It isn't required that we explain what our transgression is to everyone, however, it's amusing in a sad sort of way to listen to the embarrassment in the voices of the marked students as they explain, and I smile at the thought that it does not bother me to wear my little letter A.  Even if I were to broadcast the word it represents, no one would truly understand the symbolism and meaning it holds for me.

Just like no one truly understands the symbolism and meaning The Scarlet Letter holds for Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Along the Lines of Chuck Norris (and Other Notable Figures)

"We've all been designed by God to be a blessing to many - a hero to some." ~ Chuck Norris, Introduction to "Do Hard Things" by Alex and Brett Harris




"You don't understand. If I'm not here to recieve these ideas, God will give them to Prince." ~Michael Jackson



"If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down on his shoulders - what would you tell him to do?" ~Ayn Rand, "Atlas Shrugged"



"There are just some kind of men who - who're so busy worrying about the next world they've never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the result." ~Harper Lee, "To Kill a Mockingbird"



"Remember, remember, the Fifth of November, the Gunpowder Treason and Plot. I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot... But what of the man? I know his name was Guy Fawkes and I know, in 1605, he attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. But who was he really? What was he like? We are told to remember the idea, not the man, because a man can fail. He can be caught, he can be killed and forgotten, but 400 years later, an idea can still change the world. I've witnessed first hand the power of ideas, I've seen people kill in the name of them, and die defending them... but you cannot kiss an idea, cannot touch it, or hold it... ideas do not bleed, they do not feel pain, they do not love... And it is not an idea I miss, it is the man... A man that made me remember the Fifth of November. A man that I will never forget." ~Evie Hammond, "V for Vendetta"



"There is only one cause of unhappiness: the false beliefs you have in your head, beliefs so widespread, so commonly held, that it never occurs to you to question them." ~Anthony de Mello, "Awareness"



"The individual has always had a struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privelege of owning yourself." ~Nietzsche



"Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tradgedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true." ~Stranger than Fiction

Along the Lines of Solitude

The ocean swells, slow but sure
A wind blows chill, unsteady,
The sky above so clear and pure;
It calms my heart already.
This my little solitude
Turns my fears away
From ocean to the coast so crude,
It called me back today.
In this corner of security
One place to call my own
To leave the world's impurities
To go to be left alone.
I come to think of everything
And nothing all the same
To turn my thoughts to other things;
Things too broad to name.
And in my patch of solitude
I look for strength to rise
To face my life and people rude
Full of secrets, friends, and lies.
So when inside I'm dying
And lose my will to be,
I pretend I'm flying
To my place beside the sea.

Along the Lines of Home

I think everyone has that one person that is home to them. Maybe some people have many.  For me, a very slim few stick out in my mind.

Last Wednesday, a friend came down to visit. He was at my house after school and we spent about six hours together. It was undeniably the best hours of my life.

We found the only cafe in town and had dinner, talking for about three hours before we decided to go find somewhere else to be. Driving around the city with him was perfect, being lost with him was perfect, and the feeling he brought was perfect.

He is everything that is home to me, and has been for as long as we've been friends. It was amazing to me how completely okay I was with life when he was here. How alive I felt.

At one point we tried to find this canyon where a bunch of million-dollar homes are built, and we ended up on a single lane road driving down a completely different canyon. We found campsites and just kept driving, him talking about how beautiful it all is and me just soaking in the sound of his voice, watching him, and trying to remember every last detail. When we got to the end of the road, we turned around but found our way back. The second time around, there were three deer at the end of the road. Miraculously they didn't run off, but stood there watching us as we stopped the car. Neither he or I could breathe. After twenty minutes or so they ran off, and he and I got out of the car to walk around and just be outside.

Like everywhere here, it was quiet. There wasn't the sound of a freeway, a car, nothing but the soft trickle of a stream nearby and our own breathing. We didn't have much to say, but we didn't need to. Leaning up against the trunk of his car, we thought and occasionally voiced what was on our minds, but mostly it was just quiet. He put his arm around me when he noticed I was shivering, holding me close and trying to keep me warm.

That hug... God, that hug healed me, stitching together all of the pain and anger and hurt I've felt ever since graduation day. I could breathe easily in his arms, it was safe, and I was home.

The things we talked about and did together in that little part of nowhere will stay between us, at least for a very long time.  It was all so... us, and private, that it'd feel like sharing something sacred with someone else.  (No, it wasn't sex or anything close to it, for those who're wondering. He's not like that, even at his weakest.)

On the way back to the house we noticed his tire going flat. He'd driven through construction and we later found a nail embedded in his front passenger tire.  Because of the potential dangers of driving fifty minutes on the freeway with a dying tire, he said he should probably leave sooner than planned to try and keep the tire alive.

I could feel the stitches starting to loosen, threatening.

He stayed and talked to my parents and me a little longer, and we went out on the back porch. It was then that he asked me how I'm really doing, and I wish I had been able to tell him how hard it is, tell him the things that make me cry myself to sleep, let myself break down and show him what goes on beneath the smiles.
But I couldn't... because he was there, and everything was okay, even if only temporarily.

Finally, he really did have to go. I walked him to his car, and he commented on how he felt like he should be taking me home. I didn't trust myself to say anything, so I just let him hug me. It was tight, and close, and we both started to feel reality sinking back in. He held me closer and tighter for a split second before opening his door, smiling a sad smile, telling me to keep texting him, and got in the car. I couldn't say anything, didn't trust myself to, because when he stepped back and I knew he was leaving, all of those stitches he had put in place that afternoon tore out, taking everything with them. Turning around, I walked through the door, locked it, and tried to go down to my room, but found myself watching him drive off, watching even after I couldn't see him anymore. I was shaking, and the pain was so unbearably real... I made my way downstairs, locked my door, and cried.

I didn't know something could hurt like that. I've been through divorce, and breakups, and moving, but everything I've ever been through doesn't add up to that feeling. I fell asleep crying, and woke up to find tears already fighting to get out.

The pain comes back, breaking through my forced anesthesia. It hurts, unbearably sometimes, but those five hours of home... I would take the pain just to have that back, no matter how brief

Today, this same friend, this same person who is Home to me, informed me that he's filling out his mission papers.  He's going to leave, and I don't know what I'm going to do without him. 

For a few minutes, again, I couldn't breathe.

Along the Lines of Poetry from the Past

A song for a lover
Is never quite the same
And when you hear those lyrics
You cry and curse his name.
A lover almost never lasts
So what's the point in words
To make you stop and remember
All the things you saw and heard?

So here's a song to a brother
One who will never go away
Here's a song to someone
Who I hope is here to stay.
Here's a song to someone
Who will always have a part
In this torn and growing space
This place that's called my heart.

Here's to a brother.

A song about a friend
Who's almost always there
It brings back those memories
Of the times you used to share.
A friend is never certain
Of which side they would choose
And every word could remind you
Of what you had to lose.

So here's a song to a brother
One who'll never go away.
Here's a song to a brother
Who I hope is here to stay.
Here's a song to someone
Who will always have a part
In this torn and growing space,
This space that's called my heart.

Here's to a brother.

A song about a memory
Is either happy or it's sad
And oftentimes it changes
As you realize what you had.
A memory is special
Words and pictures can it save,
But the pain is hardly worth it,
for your heart, to it, you gave.

Why sing to a lover who disappears
Why sing to a friend's false guise,
Why sing to a memory of that day,
And the sunny summer skies?
Why sing to all these different things
That never again will be?
Why sing to things that go away,
To loves that cease to be?

So here's a song to a brother,
One who will never go away,
Here's a song to a brother
Who I hope is here to stay.
Here's a song to someone
Who will always have a part
In this torn and growing space
This place that's called my heart.

This love for a brother
Is different in many ways
This love is unconditional
And will last beyond our days.

So here's to a brother.

This song is to you my brother
Please don't ever go away.
You're the single person
Who I hope will always stay.
You're the only person
Who will always have a part
In this torn and mending space,
This place that's called my heart.

Along the Lines of Disappointment

The more time that passes, the longer the time since I last talked to him, the more I feel like I was used. As distance grows, there's just something... unsettling, something that makes me feel like it was nothing to him.
I wonder if it really meant anything, or if it was just late at night and alone. I wonder if he really is the jackass a coworker says he is, or if he really doesn't have any way to contact me. It's hard, because I've been trying to figure out what to classify us as, and I've only been able to come up with friends with benefits. At the time, I was completely okay with it, and I think I still would be. I just need him to tell me where we are so that I can stop making excuses for him in my head and see him in the light I should, rather than the rose-colored glow of my daydreams.
If he wanted to see or talk to me bad enough, wouldn't he take the time to try?
I'm still trying to figure out how I felt that night, if I felt anything at all. I wanted so desperately to be his, still do, but I would take whatever he would give me, just as is the case now.
Does that make me pathetic?
Does that make me the slut my mom thinks I'm turning into?
Does that make me weak and vulnerable?
I've tried not to classify myself based on other people for the past four or five years of my life, but there's a hole, and something's missing, something that has always been absent. For that one night, he filled so much of that hole... and now it's gone again. I don't want to need people to define who I am, but it's hard to know who I am with that empty space. I can't know exactly who I am with a piece of the picture missing, but how do I find what I don't know to look for?
I wish I could talk to him. I need explanations.

Along the Lines of Endings

A friend of mine wants to write a book in which the main character is given twenty four hours left to live. At this point, he has the choice to either relive twenty four hours of his life, or to live twenty four hours in the present. Either way the character will die at the end of the twenty four hours.
Quite frankly I don't know which I would choose.
In a lot of ways, I feel like the character might if he didn't have the choice, and knew he was going to die in a matter of twenty four hours. I am not dying, as far as I am aware, but I will be leaving everything I've ever known in two days' time. I know what I would fill those hours with, if it were up to me.
I would have him with me for every second, holding my hand or holding my waist, and giving me the strength that he always does. There would be two others with us, close friends that I will always cherish and who have stood by me through everything. I would want to see everyone I am leaving behind, and let them know I will miss them. I would take pictures of each person, and pictures of places that hold happy memories.
I would spend the rest of the time with just him, alone like we were that one night. His lips would caress mine, and his strong hands would hold me close. His softly whispered secrets would make me smile and make me cry, and we would make each second we had together last in the most beautiful way. He would laugh helplessly when my hands brushed his back too lightly with a smile that will forever be engrained in my memory. There would be precious moments where we just lay there, his cheek against mine and our fingers laced together, the silence wrapping around us like a light in a cave. We would share what we could with each other with no worries of consequences because now was all we had. He would touch my face and run his fingers through my hair, his soft lips touching my cheek, neck, and shoulder. His breath and fingers would trace patterns on my skin, leaving tingling paths in their wake. Every last second would be spent in his arms, sharing myself with him in exchange for bits of himself.
And when it came time to say goodbye, he would kiss me fiercely, sad and upset and longing to keep me longer... and he would promise me something. He would promise to see me when he could, and to wait for me. He would promise to wait the one year that is going to separate us, and when that year was up, I would come back, and we would share our last hours together all over again, only this time... they would be our first.

Along the Lines of Exhaustion

Tired

of fighting

Tired

of pointlessly hoping

Tired

of being someone I'm not

Tired

of not living up to what I should be

Tired

of trusting in someone who believes in God

Tired

of not being able to be who I am

Tired

of living day to day in vain

Tired

of not knowing

Tired

of life