Sometimes I’m cold

Sometimes I’m cold.

I shut down. I shut out. I simply don’t want anymore. My heart is no longer an ever-thirsty porous sponge desperate to soak up love, attention and affection.

It’s a strange sensation when the longing ceases, like that startled feeling of falling from a great height only to realize you’re safe in bed and haven’t moved an inch except for the frightened gasp no one heard.

When the empty, off-kilter existence that has been the norm suddenly is no longer, the calm stability is what seems off balance. I must learn how to live in this temporary skin of frost and frigidness.

Perhaps inside this protective shell I’m evolving, maturing, learning. The heat of Spring’s sunny rays will reveal the answer.

cold

My Silent Anniversary

A year ago today I woke an unbeliever. Sure, I believed in love, but I viewed it as the culmination of a series of choices. It was a systematic thing. A person loved because he or she chose to love and that love was based on similar worldviews, attraction, personality and most importantly commitment. The butterflies always fade so, at the end of the day, there must be more than lust and attraction as the ties that bind together a relationship. I thought anything else was an illusion. I lived in a black and white world. There was committed love and passionate lust. I didn’t allow that there might be something else… an other, a gray area where science and reason ceased to exist.

I scoffed at the romantics, the ones who told tales of love at first sight. The idea of “falling” in love was as foreign to me as mobile phones would have been to the Knights of the Round Table—simply unfathomable. One didn’t just fall, and people who said they had were just confusing lust and love. Soulmates were a myth; compatibly was truth.

I didn’t believe love could show up in a garden, that it could take one so completely by surprise, that it could develop, blossom and grow so rapidly that a lifetime could be lived twenty hours. Now, three hundred and sixty-five days later, I believe. I believe in past lives or genetic memory or something that’s within that recognizes its counterpart on sight.

I believe what happened to me is rare. I don’t believe it will happen again. The soul, after all, can only take so much. And that makes me even more thankful that it happened. I think of all the people who will never know such joy, such elation and, inversely, such despair.

A year ago today I had never had my heart broken. But I believe I’m fortunate, lucky or blessed to have experienced a depth of feeling so great that, when I realized the utter hopelessness of a future together, the actual physical pain that followed was unlike anything I could have imagined. To attempt to describe it seems futile, but I attempted to once.

I will go through the motions today, appearing to work, perhaps even getting a few things done. But in reality I’m a ghost. Today I replay my memories. Like a grainy black and white film, they flicker across the screen of my mind. I still need to finish telling my story, but that won’t be today. February eleventh will forever be my silent anniversary, one no one knows about but you who read my innermost thoughts. Today I recognize the day I became a believer. Today I acknowledge my awakening.

Storm’s a Comin’

I knew things had been trucking along too good to stay that way. So hang on folks, there’s a perfect storm a brewin’.

Nathan‘s been gone for two weeks and I just called him to say hi. He answers and talks for a few seconds in that I’m-tring-to-pay-attention-but-I’m-really-distracted voice. Then I hear the giggle of female voices in the background which claws at my heart like knives to a painted canvas. Immediately he tells me the groups plans for the evening—dinner, drinks, touring—all innocent enough. But I know what a female laugh like that means. I cut the conversation short and kept it cheerful, telling him to have a good time, etc. I hung up realizing I have no idea where things really stand between us.

Also, I’m rapidly approaching the one year anniversary of meeting Ian, the Australian. And the closer I get to that day, the more turmoiled I become.

I need holding. I need deep passionate kisses.

I was already toying with the idea of seeing Lover tonight, and perhaps I could have been stronger and resisted the temptation. But the giggles in the background pushed me over the edge. I’m going.

Marian out.

Whispers

The breathy formation of words spoken so softly, so quietly that they could only be intended for one. For you. The hushed intimacies shared in the stillness linger like the afterglow of lightning bugs in the forest. Tell me I’m your everything, lay bare your heart. In return I’ll share a glimpse of my soul. And, if you listen closely, my whispers.