Sitting in the coffee shop, "blank white page" is playing
Have you ever met someone so spectacular that you treat them like an item rather than a real person? They seem like a dream, something that walked right out of your mind on tiny little cloud stairs into this world.
How do you make them yours? How do you convince this dream to let you hold them? How do you decieve them into thinking you’re their dream also?
And once you do, does that dream fade?
The gold crusts in your eyes eventually are rubbed away and everything is seen as realistically as possible. Is this person the person you thought they were? Were these qualities, these characteristics you adored so much, imagined, emphasized, or forced?
Should you feel lied to? Afterall, you are the liar, not them.
Should you…fucking… feel anything at all?
God, have you ever just felt so much for something that you can’t feel anything at all.
I do. All the time. I think a lot of people do, but they don’t realize it. They don’t sit and think, on a patch of cold grass, in the dark… They don’t slow down…think…exist, simply. If they did, they’d be more complicated, but they’d also be more reasonable.
What a pointless rant this is.
I’m starting to think about those cold patches of grass. The times I spent there hoping I’m walking down somone’s cloud stairs into their lives. Hoping I won’t be a disappointment, but… knowing I will be.
This is the part where I proclaim my indifference towards love and human interaction, in general. (Which, honestly, I know I’ll never stop myself completely from feeling this way).
But I’m cutting that out, and instead pasting..
My goal in life is to always be true to myself - so, gulp, here’s the truth.
I may be a somewhat miserable person, but never make the mistake that I’m not passionate. If anything, I’m passionate because I am so miserable. (Or am I so miserable because I am passionate?) Because I chose to see life as it is, and I chose to realize that, although, dreams may not exist within another person, they can exist inside yourself.
I have to be my own dream, descend my own stairs, before I can have hope in others.
In that way, I am alone, and I accept it. And I’m not afraid, because I trust myself. Not others. That’s another lesson - my biggest of all - that I hope to learn someday… A lesson I can’t learn on my own.
Anything I don’t mention: height, weight, penis size, yearly income, eye color, hair, ect…. I don’t give a fuck about. I’m picky enough, I gotta find some leeway, plus, none of that matters.
I call them evil eyebrows. Brows that set low on the eyes, much like the way a comic book artist would sketch a villian. I like the darkness brows can add or take away from someone’s, otherwise friendly, feautures.
I don’t know why but I can’t stand little ears. It’s not just me, right? Isn’t it fucking weird when someone has ridiculously small ears? It’s pig-like, bat-like, gross (sorry if you have small ears).
Eyelashes. I’m a sucker for long eyelashes. I just think they’re so pretty. I know this is somewhat of a girlish feature, stereotypically, but… They way they sweep over a cheek, the way they can cast shadows over a conflicted face - all totally breathtaking to me.
Lips. Big lips intimidate me. What am I supposed to do with all that? Damn. But, seriously, I don’t like kissing someone who’s gonna leave saliva on my chin. Yeah, think about that one next time you meet someone big-lipped.
Hands. My favorite part of any mans body is his…hhhhands. I just remember growing up around the strong, rough, sun-tanned hands of my farming fathers. I can’t say any particular feature I like about a hand, it’s just, if you have nice hands, I’ll know.
Arms. Long. Not muscular, but defined. And I love veins. If I can trace those tunnels over your skin with my fingers, I’m in heaven. Jesus, don’t you love the way they’re squishy enough to push down?
He smells like… the inside of closets of stairs, earthy, musky, like the scent of a dark summer night, something familiar and clean, a scent I could’ve smelled a million times as a child but never really paid attention to.
Hats. I like ‘em.
Shoes. Converse melt my Ramones-loving heart.
Don’t wear skinny jeans unless you can pull em off…. Ha ha.
What is it about ray bans? Anyone? Mm, mm, mm.
Man-purse. Be man enough to own a “satchel.” For one thing, they’re uber convenient, and they give you that indie boy swag.
Glasses. Ultimate weakness number one. I go nuts for boys in glasses.
Skinny ties, blazers, button-downs, and cardigans. If you can pull off a putton down with a skinny tie combination as a dressy casual outfit… You’re a badass.
Lastly, but not least importante - Black. And lots of it. Head to toe. Stops my heart.
Personality - small-town roots, big city dreams.
This is most important.
Funny. Work a room, but don’t be obnoxious. Subtly humorous. Keep it classy, but slip in (ooo) the dirty jokes.
Manners. Have them. I love a country boy specifically for this reason.
Humility. It’s most important to me that you’re able to laugh at yourself. Don’t take everything too seriously. Know when to be down to earth and when to man up and make descisions.
Intelligent. CARE ABOUT YOUR GRADES. “Aw, man, I didn’t do that shit, I was so drunk last night” That’s not fucking impressive. GROW THE FUCK UP. Be a man and GET SHIT DONE. (:
Weird. Rejoice in the fact that I’m a freak. Don’t beat me with “wtf”s when I ask random-ass questions. Play along. I like being the weird kid I’ve always been; I need to know you like it too.
Confidence. Be confident enough in yourself to be happy for me. I appreciate recognition more than I do affection.
Work ethic. Not lazy, and helps me not to be. Is, for the most part, career oriented, and works hard. Wants the same things in life as me.
Taste. Like good movies and music. That’s it.
Learning more and more each day what I want, which means I’m just closer and closer to knowing exactly who I am(:
As a child, my parents fighting existed inside of me.
My mom was the reasonable one, my father - the dreamer. And together, their voices would rise and fall like the waves of a stormy ocean.
I think what makes a woman is her ability to accept the fact that she’ll always be a scared little girl, and she needs people, and it doesn’t mean she’s weak if she cries.
To me - that’s being a woman. And it’s my greatest struggle.
I want all the time. I want him. I want myself. I want carrots dipped in ranch. I want front-porch swingin’ and gradfather-foot-tappin’. I want ball throwing, teasing, rolling in green grass. As an adult, I long for this place that was only familiar to me as a child.
I want, I want, I want. And when it comes to needing, I am afraid. So afraid in fact that I’d rather people hate me. I try and make them hate me. I exhaust them. I smother. I want them to go away, but I need them to tell me that’s not what I really want.
There’s violence inside of me. A white, thin, sheet of paper, shredded down its middle. The way a jacket divides when you run that zipper down it’s long middle. The infected cut of the horizon, orange summer, sunset on top of harsh, silhouetted black.
I know what I want. But I don’t want to need.. itthisthingyouyeahyou.
Fine. I’m scared. And I’m complicated. I accept it.