Tuesday, November 30, 2010

an update in my absence (I know, I know, this is familiar)

I promise you, I'm still here.

I'm in such a damn good mood today, but I'm also quite tired. I've been moving non-stop since I got home, from a conference call, to trying to catch up with a (sleepy :) friend, to cooking dinner, to twisting and rolling my hair, to making lunch for tomorrow, to catching up with my roommates...

You get the picture.

But, I just wanted you to know that I miss you. My most productive time of the day (writing wise) is unfortunately the time that I'm at work. I used to have access to my blog at work, until the powers-that-be in their cozy district office decided to strip me of that pleasure.

So, often I'll be sitting at work, thinking about you, hoping that you're thinking about me. Staring at my computer screen, knowing that with a few small changes, I would have access to you.

I hope you're feeling well. Even though I'm sleepy, my body feels rather rested, and my mind is in a different place. A very good place.

Today is my parents' anniversary, by the way. They've been married for my age + 2. That's a long time to be with the same person. But for all the ups and downs, I'm damned thankful they are still together, and they are both still here. I am immensely blessed. Immensely.

It intrigues me that a few short years ago, I wasn't cognizant of my blessings. How time and experience has changed me.

Can you believe it's almost 2011? I can't. Time is moving faster than I like, sometimes.

He has been gone for a week, and while I'm used to it (not only have we gone for months without speaking to each other, but in my head it feels like he's been gone for a year already, rather than just a week), I think about *him* all the time. I pray for him. I hope he's having a hell of a time. And I hope he's thinking about me too. If there's anyone who understands a present absence, it's me. I've kind of cornered the market on that.

I could probably keep going, telling you random things from my stream of consciousness, but I still have things to do before sleep. I promise you, I'll be back soon.


(oh yeah, I'm freelancing again. I promise I'll tell you about that soon enough :)

Monday, November 22, 2010

Bonus: Hair truths or hair insecurities

This is a post I wrote a couple of weeks ago and forgot to post. Fitting since I've been thinking hard about hair lately.

She snickered.

And when I walked a step more, he snickered.

The line of students in the hallway outside of my classroom looked at me as I walked by them, and it could have been for any reason—it could have been because I stand almost six feet tall, as opposed to their small heights; it could be because they were stationary, and I was in motion; it even could have been because I had my keys in my hand, clearly going somewhere off-campus. My immediate line of thought was that they were laughing at my hair.

Don’t get me wrong—my hair is fly today. It’s super breezy outside, and my brown-red hair has been flapping in the strong breeze. My hair has been braided for a few days, and I decided to unbraid it this morning. When I initially braided it, it was after I’d detangled my hair in the shower, so the resulting braid-out was neat, and full of bounce. It’s much bigger than it used to be, and it’s hard to believe that a year and a half ago (which wasn’t that long ago), I had barely an inch of hair, and now I have this mass of kinks and curls flowing from my scalp.

Nevertheless, I’m a natural, and I’m sensitive about my hair. From the first day that I cut it, and even now, a year and some change later, I have heard some of the most interesting/ignorant/hurtful commentary surrounding hair. These comments are probably things that I’d heard before, but did not acknowledge, because they didn’t apply to me, and/or because I just wasn’t listening in the same way that I am now. Why’d you cut your hair? Why is your hair like that? Blasé blasé blasé about “naps.” So and so has good hair. Oh Miss Malorie you have that good hair. How do you get those little curls in your hair?

The comments don’t bother me as much. I can always have an educational moment with someone. I have corrected loved ones and friends when they have joked about “naps” or made commentary about “good hair.” (Whatever the hell that is.) When people asked me why I cut my hair, I told them it was because it was mine to cut. I explained to a coworker that I didn’t have to do anything to get the curls in my hair; that the curls are what God gave me.

It’s the stares that get to me. On occasion, I have noticed people looking at me. I’m well aware of the fact that people could either a). Not actually be looking at me (I bet you think this song is about you…), or b). Be looking at me for a reason that has nothing to do with my hair (i.e. because I am indeed almost six feet tall and walk with undeniable confidence, because of something I’m wearing, or for no reason at all). But whenever I see someone glancing in my direction, I immediately think that they are looking at my hair. Just like the little bad-ass girl in the hallway today, and the little boy at her side. (Don’t judge me, she is a little bad-ass who needs lots of love, and possibly a good ass-whooping.) When they looked up at me and laughed, I linked it automatically to my fro, flapping in the wind.

And although when I went to the restroom to check my hair, it was askew and a little messed up from the breeze all day, am I thinking that people are looking at me because I somehow have some insecurity about my hair? And if they are indeed looking at me, am I immediately linking their stares to negativity because of the fact that I have negative thoughts about my own hair?

Just wondering.

side note: today when i was walking into work, feeling not 100%due to those fucking nasty ass tacos from the fucking "authentic Mexican restaurant in the Cuban neighborhood that i live in--clearly, that food choice was a mistake a little Pre-K girl, whom I've never talked to before, waved at me and said "I think your hair is pretty." Out the mouths of babes... she made my heart smile.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

"I am not my hair" or am I?

I'm going to tell you the truth. I've never listened to India.Arie's I Am Not My Hair. With my computer having no memory, and thus having no iTunes (ever since the crash, R.I.P. to my 3000+ songs), my iPod hasn't been updated since Nicki Minaj was an unknown to the mainstream world. (Man, I kind of miss those days.)

Despite my having never listened to the song, however, I'm very aware of the fact that it's an anthem for women who have gone natural. I'm assuming, having never listened to the song and feeling too shitty right now to give you an external link to the lyrics, or look up the lyrics myself that it has become such because of the fact that women going natural can alwayssometimes encounter a lot of drama over something as simple as hair. You have to consistently remind yourself that it's just hair when people are asking you why you cut it, or why you would want to be natural. People can unintentionally pass a lot of judgment when it comes to a woman's choice to embrace her natural hair texture.

But, have those in the natural hair community ever thought about the fact that maybe we are passing judgment on those who do not have natural hair?

Today, as I was sitting in bed feeling like a Mack truck had run over my back numerous times, I thought about changing my hair. I thought about either locking it, or even *gasp* going back to the creamy crack. (And yes, I have seen Good Hair.) And as soon as I had that thought, I shook it away, as though it was not an appealing option. Like it's something I'm not supposed to do.

Well, wait.... rewind. I thought Arie said I am not my hair. But it seems like that motto doesn't apply in every situation. It's fine for me to say "I am not my hair" when I'm going to chop it off and go natural, but if I'm going from natural back to relaxed, then the attitude that seems to be displayed is something like awww man, you gave up. It's disappointment. And I know this because on the couple of occasions when I have encountered women who were natural, and decided to go back to being relaxed, I felt kind of disappointed. But, why did I feel that way? Because they weren't embracing what God gave them? Because they gave up on the fight?

But why does it have to be a fight? If I am not my hair, then it shouldn't matter what I do with it, right? I should be able to shave half my hair off, I should be able to be natural, I should be able to wear it however.

This is not a dictation as to where I'm going with my hair journeymaybe more like a hint, but I just think if I really am not my hair, then I need to act more like it. No matter what I choose to do with it.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


from the days of myspace. if you've never had someone make you feel this way, you need to get on changing that, quick.


he thinks it's sexy when i'm just me.
i mean, he really digs the malorie he met
when she was drunk, stealing all the attention
from the center of the dance floor,
smiling through squinted eyes
and occupied lips.
but he really thinks it's sexy when i'm just me,
losing my balance when he kisses me
and saying things
wrong order spoken in the.
really, he totally loved the freakum dress
and he thinks my tight jeans are cool,
but he really thinks it's sexy when i'm me,
hair all disheveled from mischief,
sleeping in shorts and an Aunt Jemima head rag;
he thinks my glasses are sexy as fuck
and doesn't mind the pre-teethbrushing, morning-breath-still-kickin' kisses
that positively set my neuroticism aflame.
really, really really, sincerely,
he thinks it's sexy when i'm just me.

no title for memories

I was going to get all argumentative and dig in to a topic, but... I don't feel like it.

Instead, I feel like telling you a story.

Once upon a time, in an Autumn passed, I was 21, and living the life. I made sure I was out every weekend, hanging out with girlfriends, getting my drink in--the usual. That summer, I'd been going out on dates with a really fly dude; sexy, I'm-trying-to-fuck-you-through-your-clothes-as-we-make-out dates, but with Autumn came familiar loss, and he was gone. Though I was mad, I wasn't as hurt as I thought I was, and I was just kind of chilling. Not really looking for anything, and not really caring about what happened. All I knew was that I was grown, a fresh college graduate, and that I liked the sexy, uninhibited girl I became when I sipped.

That particular night in Autumn, my girlfriend wanted to go to a club I'd never been to before. It was supposed to be 80s night, and for whatever reason, I wasn't feeling it. I wanted to head to one of the other clubs, the one bumping the more "hood" music. (Man, how times have changed.) For whatever reason that night, my girlfriend put her foot down, and we stuck with the original club choice.

I'm not quite sure why I was so opposed to staying in that particular club that night, but, never one to waste time, I went ahead and grabbed my free Cran & Vodka (again, man, how times have changed), and got to drinking. In typical fashion, I started knocking them back. I'm not sure how much I drank, but I'm sure I had at least six Cran & Vodkas. My vision was mighty toasty as my hips started to wiggle to the music. My girlfriend had been sipping on her own poison, probably tequila sunrises (bleh), and she was off, dancing with an interesting looking specimen. and by interesting I mean he probably had gold teeth, wore sunglasses in the club, had dreads and wore a tall tee. bleh.

My toasty vision and wobbly balance lead me over near the railing, and that is where I danced, by myself, scanning the dim club with my particularly limited vision.

I don't remember seeing him approach me, and I don't remember feeling him touch me, or tap my shoulder, or my hip. I don't remember him saying anything, and I don't remember when our bodies touched for the very first time, but, suddenly, I found myself dancing with a perfect stranger. I'm not one to dance long with guys in the club usually because the sensation of their shit burgeoning through their pants doesn't appeal to me the way it did when I was fifteen and new to the world of dancing, male erections, and bodily contact of the opposite sex, but that night, I was vacuumed sealed to this stranger.

Before long, our lips were locked on each other. I also, prior to that moment, had never been a club kisser. All of the usuals were unusual. For whatever reason, my lips were locked on this perfect stranger, and we were practically the same being (we were that close in proximity), but I didn't feel uncomfortable, and he didn't feel grimy. I will cease in trying to explain how unnaturally comfortable it felt, because my words will fail me, and I will never be able to adequately explain that feeling.

By the time my girlfriend was pulling me off of my perfect stranger, telling me it was time to go shit, I was the one with the curfew, I don't know why she was telling me to go, we'd rubbed our lips raw. Now intoxicated with the unfamiliarity of kissing a stranger, and the remnants of Cran & Vodka still flowing through me, I somehow had the composure to pull out my phone so we could exchange numbers. When we did, I told him, specifically, not to play games with me. In the darkness of the club and the haze of my impaired vision, I'm sure he smiled that smile, that I happened to miss, at that time, having never seen it before.

My girlfriend and I stumbled down Church Street, laughing and carrying on about the night's festivities, namely, the way my perfect stranger and I had stolen the show of the club by making out for hours (no exaggeration). I think we'd stopped dance/grinding and simply kissed each other, my life energy mixing with his, unbeknownst to either one of us.

Once inside her car, my phone beeped its familiar jingle, and I saw that my perfect stranger had sent me a text. With my name spelled correctly, my perfect stranger wished me sweet dreams, a phrase that would later, never be the same.

That night, I met him.

We were perfect strangers then, and never will be again. If I'd gotten my way that night, my friend and I would have never gone to the club we did, and while I'm sure I would have bumped to the deep bass line in the other club, I would have never met one of the most extraordinary people I have ever known.

If I could go back to that night, two years ago today, I would do everything the exact.same.way. The inebriation, the vacuum-sealed lips, the me thinking he had on a completely different color shirt than he actually did, the giggle-filled conversation my girlfriend and I drunkenly had while trying to remember what he looked like, exactly.

I would go back and meet my perfect stranger all over again.

i thank God for you, and i think you're great.

Monday, November 15, 2010

"I don't need a man to have a baby"

Today was a good day at work.

I find that I like my team more when I have the opportunity to debate with them, and listen to their many different viewpoints on different subjects, usually about relationships and sex. (We are split almost evenly between the sexes.) This is the first time that I have ever been on a team that has consisted of so many different variables: different ages (18-24), different races, religious beliefs/practices, different hometowns, etc.

Today, one of my team's members was talking about a friend who said that she can't wait to have a baby, and that she just wants to go get inseminated; that she doesn't want to get married. I was all on board with the wanting to have a baby (hey, I have some strong maternal urgings myself, though I am in NO rush to have a baby anytime soon, especially with my situation), but when my team member brought up the not wanting to get married, part of me frowned. Part of me frowned even harder when another female team member raised her hand in the air in agreement, stating that she also didn't want to get married.

I've been pondering off and on why that frown inside of me happened. It's not enough that we are told that you're supposed to grow up, get married, and have children. I'm wise enough to know that everything that is preached as should-be-practice isn't necessarily correct. So, my latching on to the ideal of the nuclear family isn't because I've been told that's what's "right" my entire life, at least, I don't think that's why.

I am the product of a nuclear family. Growing up, I had my mother and my father. Mom was the disciplinarian, and she was the one whose word was usually the final one. She was the one who risked my twelve year old angst and pulled me out of my black middle school and drove me across town every day to the whiter middle school so I could get an education worthy of my innate intellect when my father was more worried about my anger over being forced to leave my friends. (I've now caught up with most of them on Facebook.) Mom was the one who wouldn't let me get my nails done until I was 14, the one who wouldn't let me get my second earlobe piercing until I was 15. Mom always told me that she wasn't my friend, she was my mom. And because she took this stance in my life, frequently taking the risk of hurting my very sensitive feelings with her tough love, she is, now, my friend as well as my mother, and I value her opinion and want her approval. I love her beyond comprehension.

But what about my dad? His role can't be trivialized or overlooked. Yes, my father was more of the softy in my life. Despite his towering stature, and infamous attitude, when I look back over my childhood, that attitude was more frequently displayed toward things that caused me strife, rather than actually at me. My dad was the one who would take me swimming all day at the pool every summer, the one who would take me on drives just because. Daddy was the one who took me to the mall on my birthday when I was five, and daddy is the one who listened to my rants and raves via phone calls to-and-from class when I was nineteen. My dad would break himself to get me the Barbie doll I wanted, and to make sure I had extra money when I wanted to go to the mall. My dad is the one who gave up his own vehicle to make sure that I had a car right before I graduated from high school. My dad frequently babied me, and didn't want to risk making me angry, though usually his lack of risk made me even angrier. It is from him that I learned what debating was, because he gave me the floor to speak my mind, even when it was inappropriate for my age and position as his child. Even today, my dad would probably stick his leg through a campfire to make sure I had enough money to put gas in my car.

I think these are the reasons why I internally (and probably externally) frowned when my team member quickly said she didn't want to get married, and wouldn't mind having a baby with no father.

Once upon a time, when I was on the outs with him (which happened more often than it seems it did... in memory, the bad things eventually lose their ability to remain in your conscious, if you allow them to fly free), I felt like this. Rebelling against the system set up eons before me, I decided that I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted to get married. It just seemed so illogical, as I was getting older, and starting to see my parents' faults and their frustrations with one another, and it seemed so unsafe in a life that clearly afforded me no romantic guarantees or longstanding joys.

I, like the young lady today, would have raised my hand in agreement that maybe, just maybe having a baby by myself would be the best option. I pondered that for a moment. You know, on some fly pixie-cut Halle Berry ish. I could meet me a fine, fine man, and we could mutually decide that we liked each other enough, and we could get pregnant, and then we could have a kid, but be unattached to one another. Celebrities from here to the other side of the Pacific are doing it.

I don't quite know what happened to that rebellious emotion, but it dissipated into more centered thinking. As him and I got our ish together (like always, humans are such creatures of habit), I fell more and more into him, and I thought about how nice it must be to be with someone, and to declare your lives to each other, and to have a baby with that person.

And, back we are to where I started. What precisely makes me frown about the idea of a young lady deciding that she just wants to have a baby with no attachment? Well, for starters, it's selfish. And sure, someone could argue that the idea of deciding to have a baby is inherently selfish, since a child never asks to be conceived, but we conceive them out of our own desires/actions, but I think deciding to have a baby without a partner is selfish. What if I'd had only my mom or only my dad because one of them decided that they wanted to do it alone? Regardless of the reasons why, if I had only had one of them growing up, I would not be the person I am today. That does not mean that I would be bad, by any means (who knows what I would have been like?), it simply means that the things I gained from both of them, I wouldn't necessarily have, because I would have only been able to learn from one of them.

I also am (clearly) not sure how I feel about this generation deciding to flip what has (seemed to have) been working all.these.years. Now, instead of a culture of impassioned, empowered, single parents, we seem to have developed a culture of unaccountable baby mamas and baby daddies.*

I myself have said that marriage is simply a matter of legality, and that you can be with someone without necessarily taking that step, but I think that was a bunch of bullshit I said when my heart was hurting and longing, much like how when you talk to your friend, she tells you how done she is with so-and-so, and then she tells you she has to go, because he's on the other line. (I know. I've done it.)

All I know is that I'm not as free of the system as I thought. I want to get married. I want to be someone's wife. I want to be someone's mother, who has a healthy, consistent relationship with my children's father. I want to be able to interact with my children's father as my husband, not as the man I used to date, or the guy I used to fuck, etc. I want my kids to grow up in my house seeing their mother and their father, and I want my kids to go to sleep at night knowing that their mother and their father are both in the house.**

And don't get me wrong--if I were a lesbian, I would still want my kids to go to sleep knowing both of their mothers are in the house with them. There's just something about two parents over one.

And maybe that's just because I was blessed enough to have my mom and my dad. But I do know that my kids will have the same, God be it so.

*--that is a generalization; I definitely know people who are not married, but have children who seem to be on their grind and taking care of their family, and who aren't out there all loose and ish.
**--there's something indescribable about knowing both my mom and dad are in the house at the same time. I still don't sleep the same if one of my parents are at work. When both of them are there, I feel complete.
before i recognize this moment

this moment will be gone...

John Mayer, "Clarity"

It made me quite sad that the moment is already gone, though I was cognizant of it.

Time is moving too fast for me.

Wine drinking, and how I'm doing

Follow me on Twitter, if you dare: @missmaloriejm
So, the day is finally over. It was a Monday, and I was worried about it before it began. In some type of funk, I slept on top of my bed's comforter, curled up in my other comforter, tossing and turning much of the night, and waking up almost an hour before my alarm, which is when my roommate left the house.

Being at home for four days straight took its toll on me: I grew re-accustomed to the quiet of my house, of waking up and looking out my bathroom window at the perfectly blue sky and my mother's fuchsia bougainvillea plant. I readjusted to the smell of my house, and its feel, and sound. So, this morning, and much of last night, I'm sure my body was disoriented. It's hard living in two places: never quite letting go of home, and never quite attaching to here.

However, today's Monday wasn't as bad as other Mondays I've had, and I spent much of the day in deep thought about the future, and now, as I sit here writing to you, I'm in semi-deep thought about how I'm doing, and how I haven't spoken to you much lately. So, before writing other things that are on my mind, I thought I'd catch you up to the present.

I've spoken a lot about this person that I call him in this blog. Let me tell you a bit more (than he would be comfortable with). Him is my ex-boyfriend, though ex-boyfriend is not sufficient enough to describe him. In fact, all that term does is describe the fact that for a period of time, we declared (or didn't, because I don't think we ever actually did) ourselves as dating each other, only, and at some point not long after that, we declared that to no longer be true. However, that declaration didn't stop much of anything.

Long story short, him is someone I talk about all the time, because he is still a very active part of my life. He brought HD technicolor to my world. And now, he is leaving.

Him has found himself an opportunity to be gainfully employed abroad, and he's taking that opportunity, and leaving the States. Part of me admires him for this, and part of me is clinging to his leg. This is a really big deal, the fact that the routine that has become him and me is getting ready to completely change. There will be no more visits, no more laughs in the warmth of his bedroom, no more middle of the night texts, no more waking up to see his drowsy face, eyelashes curled toward the ceiling.

Whenever I visit home, part of me will have to remind the other parts of me that there is no going over to his apartment, because he doesn't live there anymore. There's no more need to let him know when I'm coming home, or what time I'll be getting there. We won't be going out to TGI Friday's; we won't be going to Antigua. We won't be drinking anymore, and we won't be smoking anymore. (Not that we've done those things in quite some time, anyway.)

It has hit me, but it hasn't hit me, that in a few short days, part of me will live abroad, indefinitely. I'm not sure if that part of me will ever return, or whether part of me will live, forever roaming.

Maybe we'll share an email, or two, (or many more), or maybe we'll join the Skypers and get in a video chat, or maybe I'll even get a letter, though that's a romantic notion. Or maybe, we won't. Maybe, we will become for one another, a memory of lives we used to live, of fun times we used to have. Or maybe I'll just become that way for him.

In short, that's what's been going on with me lately. There were other things that I planned on writing about, but truthfully, this has been simultaneously at the forefront of me, and buried very deeply within me.

Once again, I am at the place where I am trying to numb some of the feeling away. Never again will I wish to be completely numb, but just a tiny bit, like when you hurt yourself, and you affix a piece of ice to the place of the hurt, but remove it when it gets too cold.

I could say many other things, but no words will really suffice. My emotions speak far further than my words.

until the end of time, i'll be there for you
you own my heart and mind--i truly adore you
if God one day struck me blind
your beauty i'd still see
love's too weak to define, just what you mean to me


Sunday, November 14, 2010

In the advent that I don't see you again

We walked downstairs in the blinding sun of midday, like we always do, and you waited for me to place my things in my car, and open the driver's side door, so we could say goodbye, until next time.

I stepped out from my door to hug you, and we kissed on the cheek as the sun warmed us. You told me you'd let me know whether we'd hang on Sunday, and I said okay, and wished you a safe trip.

Whether it registered in my mind that this goodbye could be the last goodbye is not a question. When I watched you walk away from me as I drove away, I knew that that was the best goodbye I could ever give. My heart will never fully accept that you're gone, and part of her will probably always wait for your return in her life.

A kiss goodbye would never be long enough; your embrace would never satisfy my skin. Our conversation would never cease; my tears would continue falling. I would hold you and never ever let you go. I can never say goodbye, because I can't say I believe much in them, unless for good purpose (like people whom should have never been in my life anyway).

What you received that day was the best I could give you. Pretending like our goodbye that day was just another goodbye until another day, when I would see you again, and kiss your fragrance; inhaling you into me, once again, in the warmth of a Fall's day.

love you.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

no title for truth

As we stood in the small rectangle of linoleum in front of his apartment door, I tirelessly petitioned against the dismantling of comfort and familiarity.

He continued lifting bags from the floor, trying to ensure only one trip downstairs by having everything in his grasp, and I damn near grabbed it out of his hands to prevent him from throwing it into the complex's dumpster.

Logic was not a factor in me trying to alter the fate of the familiar comforter--of course, instead of throwing it away, he could have washed it and donated it to a shelter, or kept it for future needs. (You never know how cold those Asian nights may get.)

When he yanked the comforter off his floor and said he would throw it away, he yanked another of my heart's strings right along with it. I passively tried to fight for the comforter, simply repeating don't throw it away, instead of asking him if I could take it with me, and give all its old memories a new home.

It seemed too heavy handed to ask for the comforter, but reality is even heavier--for almost two years, that comforter has been our rug every time we've walked into his room. That comforter has seen our many metamorphoses--from familiar strangers, to girlfriend and boyfriend, to exes to lovers and friends. (Yes, you can have both, and no, it's not easy.) That comforter has been our platform for some of every event, from inebriated nights, to falling asleep mid-conversation, to tv watching, to playing poker and playing with each other.

That comforter is a part of his room, which is an extension of him, and to see him remove it was like a crumbling of a beloved puzzle. In the comforter's absence, sets in the hard-hitting reality that sooner than I would like, his room will be empty, and his place in the routine of my life will alter.

The removing of the comforter was the breaking of the glass--from here on out, pieces will continue to fall.

As he walked to the dumpster, comforter in hand, I watched him turn the corner, and silently, my heart began her goodbyes.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

scenes from my notebook

I've been neglecting writing lately. Not because I want to, of course. I've been writing snatches at work, but that is not enough, and I apologize, to you, as well as myself.

After starting to share something else with you, I decided to look deeper into my notebook, and found something more poignant to share with you. That other piece made me wrinkle my nose in distaste of it.

As always, it comes from the heart of me.

The thought lingers with me that I am lucky I caught him when I did...

There must be some explanation for why my life has been tainted with the color of him, forever altered. There must be some reason why when he exists inside of me, his stroke threatens to boil my skin off my body; must be some reason why my eyes overflow with tears from the beauty of him. There has to be a logical reason why after the dust has settled on our arguments and disagreements, why I still can't stand to be without him; why being angry with him seems such a waste of time.

Still searching, there's got to be a reason why the sight of his brown eyes, bright like a child's, bring a smile to my heart. Someone's got to be able to tell me why my world is simply more colorful as long as he's in it...

... I decide that maybe I was just lucky to have caught him when I did. This, coming from me, seems horribly contradictory--I say it all the time that I don't believe in luck; no coincidences. And I don't believe in luck. I firmly believe that that... night... well, I believe that was fate...

Yes, I do believe it was fate that brought us together that night, but maybe it was luck that we came together when we did...*

I've written about this thought before, but maybe there is nothing else for us. Maybe this is the end of the road for us together--maybe we were granted this short time together, like the quick flash of a beautiful sunset, to form a bridge together in order for both of us to reach our next road.

Often, I wish I could cheat the dealer of time; I wish I could have met him earlier in life, with the notion that I would have liked to see what kind of person he was then; to see how he looked, how he spoke, to have been his friend. In reality, all of that is true, but the most stunning admission of my heart is that I would have simply liked to have met him sooner because I would have liked more time to have loved him...

And, though our joined time may be ending for now, I pray it's not really the end. Nothing is really over until death. The thought still lingers with me that maybe I was lucky to catch him when I did. Like a shooting star, or a dusk's sunset, or a 4th of July sparkler, all are awe-inspiring in their own way, and so short lived that their marvel seems to transcend all other.

It seems that before you can blink, or catch your breath, or realize the moment--
--the moment is gone.
(September 30, 2010... before I could recognize the moment that was October, it was gone, and now it's November, and I'm going to try and recognize the hell out of this moment before it leaves me...)

*--has something so extraordinary ever happened to you, that it countered the very logic of what you believed? (like not believing in luck, but feeling like you were so damn lucky for getting the opportunity to know someone?)

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