MeliGoesRogue

I have always had this thing about movies; perhaps or rather I am sure there are others like me who become like ash in the midst of the emotions so deeply conveyed by others. This terrible thing happens where I begin to feel as they feel and love as they love. Last night I saw The Giver, I was weary of it as the book had been so lovely and the world as it exists now seems not too far from the Communities created by Lois. I feared the screen would make an impossible place a distant reality. It had done worse than I had feared, it had reminded me that those emotions which linger are at their essence volatile and usually uncontrollable. They set into motion the lingering melancholy my old self was always so fond of.

I retreated to my bed hoping and fearing that my dreams would as they always have reveal my desires both in their fantasy state and their unfettered honesty. The cool sheets against my skin only reminded me of the warmth I desired and set me on its path. I slept untethered to this earth and bound for the unnervingly elicit future that awaited me in the very darkest hour of the night. I could not recount what dreams awaited me there. Partly because that world is currently only safe and full of love in my eyes and partly because to share it would be to stand naked before those who might look askance upon my bared flesh. No these dreams and desires are locked safely in a box that is only retrieved when the truth is more unruly than what might come from behind its lock.

I awoke only to torture myself with another film. A film of an affair, these always end in heartache and yet there is such a comfort in knowing that those things remain. In the end I saw more than an end it was the glimpse of hope that only they could see. What had happened in those two hours each day that they had with each other had driven them to desire more than what they had but also to appreciate when life is not your own to do with as you wish. So there are times when our decisions seem not of our own making and yet we are obligated to carry on as if they are. Leaving a trace of what only two people know of. When the last score began to play  the tears fell as if the sluice gate had been intentionally propped open and what came was uncontrollable. The tears that pushed each other out as if some game was to be won. The tears however were not of loss but a reminder that the love that was shared was not forgotten, it had not dissipated it had simply adapted “like a well trained plant”

There is this constant sinking belief that this life is not my own, these people who stand near me are strangers to me. This notion is not driven by a lust for more, for money, for love but rather from the fear that I am pouring into a broken cistern that will never hold all the things I do have and hope to have. I try desperately to fight against it with dinners, meaningless conversations and accented facades, and yet I find those characters I inhabit are more free than I am and so I linger within them finding comfort in their walls of my own making. My mother would surely push me to go to my knees to find comfort and relief in whispered words; I would certainly felt obliged to try. Yet each times those words escaped the white porcelain I tried to trap them in it seemed they would flitter about in the air and fall to the ground never being captured. Unspoken words hurt far less than those spoken and untended too.

My most precious mother prays for me each day of that I am sure and somehow though the years pass she continues to believe that hope is not gone and the joy is coming shortly. I am envious of that faith and yet I fear that my envy and desire for that faith will come with more years of waiting. That same faith filled woman has told me more times than I can count that the man whom I dream of is out there being prepared for me as I am being prepared for him. That idea most of the times makes me angry and frustrated and yet on the rare occasion when the red in the glass has not passed that dangerous mark I think what a lucky woman I am; that the man I am to spend the rest of my life with would be preparing for me, preparing for our life together and all that we will create and achieve together. Those moments make me feel like the most special woman in the world. But alas with one more tilt of the glass that feeling fades and left in its place is that all to familiar feeling of desperation.

I had that brief moment in existence where that desperation created a rather tainted view of those who might seek the warmth of my hand. So many monsters made there way from out of the closets and from under the beds. I feared they would never leave or worse that I would never want them too. But once I bridled my affection I would find how quickly they would all fall from view. These moments of my life are so vivid to me and how I remember them without failure and with unrestricted emotion. I write these words and wonder when he lies beside me will he remember the moments when we were simply waiting…will I ? Will the music that plays in my heart and from the heavens now remind me then of what I once felt.

They say that giving birth is one of the most painful experiences a woman can have but that upon seeing the child of their own creation that the pain does not simply subside but it vanishes altogether leaving no trace. The pain of this patience seems more than I can bear and yet will it vanish once I see him, once my spirit recognizes its counterpart in another? Are we not each incomplete until we are in each other’s arms; two halves of one whole?

There are so many rules to this world that when we find them it seems that those rules no longer have any application to our life and we must press forward with that reckless abandon that is silently feared by so many. If it were possible to will love into existence I would have given birth many times over, but my luck is not as such.

Sometimes I wonder if these words make sense to anyone besides myself. How hard or even impossible it must be for others to see my blood upon this page when it remains white, but the blood runs even when the tears do not. Whether they be strangers or those who think themselves known to me, these words are for me to see. I am releasing them instead of hiding them and hiding more of myself.

I am not who I said I was, I am no who you think I am, I am not who I yet want to be, for now I simply exist. I do not pretend to believe that because the year has changed that I am now anew, I am still chained to the same hopes and dreams that were with me the night before last. I can not speak as to whether I am better equipped to attain them. I can however say that hiding is incredibly tedious and no one truly looks close enough anyway. Truthfully I can carry on in whoever’s skin this is and no one would know the better, perhaps not even I.

I can only hope to drift further from the fears that keep me disguised and closer to the faith of what will one day free me. This bandage will have to hold the bleeding till tomorrow when the twilight hours of 5 to 7 welcome me with their haze.