This holiday makes me feel more like a spinster

I feel that, if you love someone, you don't need one day to tell them. You have the rest of your life to tell them. You have every day to tell them. Valentine's Day is either a cop out for guys that neglect to do so, a get out of jail free card so to speak, and that's rather upsetting. At least in my case in the past. I don't know, it could change. I would like to think that people still celebrate the holiday for the history, and not for Hallmark value, but hey. Love is what I tend to live for, and I can shout that from the rooftops any damn day. I don't need just one day.

If you love someone, tell them.
"No matter how angry or sad or confusing life can get, never ever second-guess what your heart is screaming at you."

A friend of mine sent me this in an email, and I thought it was rather cute and hit close to home...


If I had the way, I'd be there. You should know that by now.

And now, I share with you the passage my sister had me read.
Let me just say, Corinthians speaks a lot of truth.
This comes from Corinthians 12:28-13:7 from the new testament of contemporary language.

If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep the score of the sins of others.
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
Love never dies.
Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.
When i was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.
We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.

Isn't that neat? I thought it was one of the most inspiring things I ever read. Granted I'm not a part of any church or religion, but I never said that I never had faith in anything.

"He's the Andy Warhol to your Edie Sedgwick. Please, darling, be careful."

Who in their right mind would say that to another human being, when they know that the person they're saying it to, is scared of herself?
If you're unaware of the story of Edie and Andy, then go and rent "Factory Girl". To sum it up, it was the rise of a walking beautiful tragedy of a girl, Edie Sedgwick, and the man who created her, Andy Warhol. So ahead of herself and the careless spirits and controversy, she stumbled into drugs and failed loves and losing all that she had, dying at age 28. She was sucked in... and I don't want to be.

He isn't my Andy, but there must be a reason why a trusted friend would say such a thing.

I continuously ponder, day in and day out, as to why I am the way I am. How I was lucky to have met the people I have, loved the ones I've loved (or still do), and why I'm still alive. And I can't find any answer, but I don't think anyone can when they question the life they're living.

I... wow. I don't know anymore.
I'm drawing blanks, and I'm sketching darker images.
"I'll take the money, and I'll learn from the regrets."

I need a piano.

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.