Purging

So I'm about to share an even older piece from the first post, simply because I have the theory that if I read it and re-write it, or re-type it enough times, I'll eventually be able to brush off the dirt and move on from this melancholy, heartbroken feeling I've been experiencing. I'm running out of things to distract myself.

If you live in the Grand Rapids area, by the way, feel free to shoot me a comment if you know of places that are hiring. Thank you.

A Love Lost... or is it found?

So peacefully, I hear you.
There's a soft morning breeze wafting into your room, from your slightly dirty windows. It kisses my cheek softly, which causes me to stir just a little. Your gentle touch and your calm, sleepy voice coax me to wake up.
You know , what to do to make me feel like I'm floating in space. You hold my face in your hands with such gentle security, afraid I'd fly out the window into the spring air. And so cautiously, you whisper into my exposed ear.

"Good morning."

Kissing my forehead tenderly, then my cheeks, then my ears, causing me to giggle in my sleepy state, you smile warmly. I open my eyes to see you, one that makes me feel at home, bathed in warmth and compassion and kindness. I brush the stray ends out of your face and behind your ear, like I gingerly always opted to do. You reached for my hand that was doing so and squeezed it, kissing it as you smiled.

"I wish we could never get out of bed," you say.

I'm floating. I've never felt so whole. If suddenly I were to lose my ability to breathe and die because of it, I would've been happy in that moment. In that precise moment, as you were caressing my bare back tenderly, I was loving you.

And then, in one assuring, swift move, you embrace me and strike me with a kiss... it couldn't compare to the feeling on Christmas Day. A tear rolls down my face, but I'm smiling, and I lose touch with the horribles, and the terribles, and the woes.

I love you. And...
I screwed up by telling you, causing you to turn away.

I'm sorry. I am sorry that I gave you the letter, but I am not sorry that I wrote it. Or even this. Because if I could, I would go back to that Friday mo.rning in April, and never leave.

So there it is.

I'm a melancholy, poetic being.

My heart has always defined that for me, for as long as I can remember, telling me that I, as a person, would rather think with my heart, than with my own head and logic combined. I miss him so much. I haven't talked to him since before he left. He was the person that didn't have any reason to be scared of me until I gave him one, and I screwed that up. I just have this empty feeling in my stomach whenever I wake up in the morning, and it's horrible.

Sigh.

And this is why I have to move on. Just like I managed in the past. I'm sure some of you can relate. Either that, or you think I'm a fucking idiot, one of the two. But you know what? I'm not prone to moving on. So I won't.

Let me keep my memories, as if they just happened.

I'm reading this book called "The Art of Happiness", a book of which my friend Andrew gave me for Christmas a few years back, and I was stubbornly offended slightly so when he gave it to me, but now I understand why. He knew I was going to need it at my worst moments, and lately it has been pretty bad. I read one chapter of it, and BOOM, I was smiling all over the place. It gives you that, "OF COURSE! Why didn't I think of that before?! Silly me! I'm a stubborn ass!" I can't recall as to who the author is, since I don't have the book sitting next to me, but I will share that later, so you all can read it, I recommend it to anyone, and I didn't even finish a third of the book yet.

But the reason why I brought that up is because it made me think of a lot of significant events that have happened in my life, recently that is. For example, a friend dying, my sister and I in an uncomfortable situation with our family but managing to seek something simplistic that made us both unitedly happy, my dad never wanting me, etc.

So those will be written about, when I manage to sit down and feel creative in a literary sense. Right now, I've been busy drawing, and plotting to become a modern-day gypsy.