A Moment of Honesty.

I am so afraid to love. To fully experience how much I love life. How much I love the people in my life. To look someone in the eyes and tell them what they mean to me. It scares me how quickly I grow to love people, how little it takes for me to create a niche for someone in my heart. And then I pretend it hasn't happened, I try to convince myself that I care less than I do because the sheer force of my affection is so potent. I try to convince myself that people are not loving, that they do not care for me, for my silly admiration, my childlike awe of their beauty. I become jealous and distrustful, turning my fears into insecurities which I can project onto other people, telling myself that they think I am this or I am that, but really, it is only my own voice in my mind. I hide. I run away from people, from myself, from my talents and skills and joys and responsibilities. I run away from the things which give me purpose and meaning. Then I wonder why I am so unhappy, so lonely. So lonely. Then I sit in memories and dreams and loose all touch with reality, with the present moment, with my own life force. I drink sorrow and smoke cartons of nostalgia until I am full of empty smoke and so quenched that I must weep and weep to cleanse my body of it's dreadful sadness. Then eventually I can't weep, and I have to sit with myself, cold, numb and motionless. And it feels like it will last forever. Like forever has already past and I have wasted my life. Like I am a waste of life.

I want to get up in the mornings and make Hilary and myself pancakes with fresh apple sauce and hot tea, or crepes with bananas and strawberries, or oatmeal with maple syrup, and cover the hallway floor with rose petals, and open the blinds and let the sun in, no matter how bright or dim it is. I want to sing as much as I can. I want to smile at strangers, but not a brief, hazardous smile, a real smile, a smile of true joy and recognition, a smile that is unique to each person to whom it is shared. A smile from my soul. I want to write poems for people I meet at bus stops as gifts for them, about how I love their shoes, how beautiful they are, about how much I believe in them. I want to tell all my friends exactly how much I love them, need, need, need them.I want to cook delicious dinners for all my neighbours, to surprise friends with fresh, home-made cakes, bouquets of flowers, paintings I painted only, only for them. I want to tell the people I want to kiss that I want to kiss them, want to make passionate love to them, for hours, hours on end. I want to hug every  child I see, to ruffle every dog's head I pass, kiss everyone who's my height, engage in furious political debate with people on the bus. I want to send mass emails to everyone I care about, a simple anecdote, an inspiring message, a call to arms, something to share that I remember and honour their being. I want to be brave. I want to tell my parents I love them, everyday. To get a telescope and discover stars and name them after my friends. I want to defend the marginalized masses, to listen to the ignored voices, abandoned faces, and to love, to love, love love fearlessly, courageously, relentlessly.

And it's do-able. It really is. To live life without fear, with an open heart and an open mind. This is not a dream, it's a possibility rooted in our commitment to experience this world with our entire heart. It's waiting to happen, but why wait?


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Writers Curse

Alone in rooms,

I write,

I write, 

I write.

words from the mind to the page, never from the heart to the mouth.

to whisper tearfully that you are the ground on which I stand,

to abound with odes for your impressive presence

i must build a paper empire,

i must carve a thousand poems from my aching bones.

and even then, there is much left to say. 

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.