blank pages

 

Blank pages are for those who have nothing to say.   For those with empty minds and inescapable voids. Blank pages are for the uncreative and for those absent of inspiration.    

I was never apathetic to your feelings nor unrepentant for my actions.  Or my lack of action.    I mocked kindness with cruelty and good intention with the selfish excuse of self preservation.   Losing you was not the worst possible outcome   Hurting you was.   And I did.   I never forgave myself.   I really still don’t.   But as usual, this blank page becomes a palette of painting myself the victim.   And I know I’m not nor have ever been.   

I can’t relate to your real stories of battle and the demons that came after.    I can’t relate to the betrayal and abuse nor the broken promises of until death do us part that you know too well.   You’re stronger than me.   You’re a better person than I can dream to become.   And I find inspiration in how you rose above all your needless suffering.  

I loved you each time I came to this blank page to write things.  Even if they were about someone else.  I simply did not know yet on some occasions.  Please don't disregard the deja vu nor believe your fears are not valid.   I will never allow anything from your heart, mouth and brain to feel invalidated.

Blank pages are for those with quiet minds.  For those who don't hear a ghost of yesterday screaming at them when they exhibit a behavior today that once was held in disrepute; towards the living and present one they love now.   Blank pages are for those who lack self awareness.  Being content in our own skin leaves us to slowly decay in mediocrity.   I'm okay if you're okay with both of our tendencies to question how are we wired.

I love you more each day yet I still find myself staring at this blank page trying to find new ways to tell you.  Blank pages are potential masterpieces.   Like our story.   Blank pages have the possibility of crushing all hope and leaving one to question everything they thought they knew.   Yesterday's pages become today's restraint.   You said dont you dare when I offered to throw old pages into the trash.  And I will never be able to tell you, it was the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.   Blank pages do not offer forgiveness.   Mercy comes later.  After authenticity.

Blank pages offer a future snapshot of beginnings.  Journeys.  Peaks and valleys.  Irrational fears and valid concerns   Hyperbole is not an art form welcomed on blank pages.  Blank pages exist for open wounds and the healing that comes to all someday.  And the hope lies in that we can heal together.  

The hope that only blank pages can offer.

 

 

untitled

Don't fuck this up.   Don't fuck this up.

I'm too old for this shit.   Funny at the time and the man with the mullet agreed.   Takes on a new meaning now.  

I always wonder how my mom made it to 75 with the last 35 years not even including a cup of coffee with a man.   At some point, it begins to feel like its a genetic thing.  And then you just accept your coffee alone from the drive thru.

I stopped being good to me.  Going through the motions of life.  I still love myself, I said silently.  I rejected grace and all of her follies.  Mercy is unconditional love, I read.   And I can't stop thinking about that.   So, here I am.   Because I won't fuck this up.   I won't fuck this up.

I stood outside, peering through the window of a dying man.   He hid in the closet; waiting for me to disappear.  I made the mistake and did just that.   I think about that all the time.   Kindness and cruelty are cousins, I thought.  I still do.

I want to ask forgiveness for everything.  Even when it't not called for.  I talk to you when you're not around.   I have for so long.   I don't yearn for people, usually, I convinced myself.    Just mercy.  I can't fuck this up.  I can't fuck this up.  

I run by mirrors.  I avoid first person personal pronouns if possible.   I find pleasure in really simple things.  Like alliteration.   And everyone moment with you.  Hope is a dangerous drug, I used to tell myself.   So, I would go cold turkey.   But I won't fuck this up.  I won't fuck this up.   

Every part of me knows this is right.   For the first time.   I don't use words and sentences lightly.  Even when I am wordy.   I love that you don't mind.   

That dying man sat with me in the lobby of a place we had our hair cut.  I was reading Seventeen magazine; learning about prom dresses and menstruation.  Twenty minutes earlier, he was hugging the staff at rehab and said, "goodbye".   I thought he simply meant he would never be back.   I learned a month later, he meant this life.

He leans into me as I am reading horrific tales of relationships from the Seventeen demographic and he says, "I will not fuck this up.   I will not fuck this up".

He did.

Mercy is unconditonal love.   And that includes being kind to ourselves.

I can't fuck this up.