He's not even my type, but I want him.
Everyone has a type, don't they? I've always been attracted to the nerdy boys. The good boys in black vests. The professor-man attire, thick scarves in winter. One hand clutching a cup of java, the other wrapped around a journal or a book, amost delicately. A man of good wines by the names I can't pronounce. An intellectual kind of guy with a huge vocabulary, grammar natze, aloof becaues he knows he's got something that interests the smart girls.
Guys in glasses. Guys who write, who read. The bookstore marms. Guys that look shy, although they aren't. Or maybe some of them are, so you know you'll definitely leave your mark by teaching them something...giving them an off-the-wall experience they've never had before.
Yes, that's what always gets me. The nerdy, hipster guy. To me, that kind of guy has always had it going on.
But he is nothing of the sort. The total opposite, actually. He's the kind of guy I grew up with. The hard-working country boy with rough-callous palms, clad in workboots and no shirt on. Body glistening of sweat as he swings the chissel. His hair smells of earth, slightly balding at the hairline in a way that makes him real. He probably hasn't read a good book since highschool, but the man can build a house of his own accord. A guy who builds the fire, rather than lazily warm his hands by work of someone else's fireplace.
The immediate friend zone guy. Except this time I want a little more than friendship. There's something about him that makes me want him.
He's the ideal Cancer to my dream-roaming Pisces. The boy feels like home. And so far he's yet to do anything physically, besides call me baby.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Confessions
That's quite a title for a first entry. But, after all, this blog-form allows for a certain sense of anonymity. I want this to be a place where the truth can be told. Emotions explored. I want to figure myself out. And it's really okay if I have an audience. It's not like I'm standing front-center in a room full of eyes. You're all just ghosts scrolling across some other screen, right?
Take me as I am. I'm all here. Comment if you can relate. Comment if you have something meaningful to say. Hell, say hello if that's all you want to tell me. But, sometimes, I'd like to know you're there. That at least, someone, somewhere, is reading me. I guess that's all most of us want (who write via blogs) is to believe we aren't just another insignificant.
The breakdown: I'm in my early thirties. Bi-polar. My life is rittled with a series of mood swings and silly anxieties. Shhh. Don't judge me. I've been in a relationship for three years...but now my eye is wandering. I'm always wandering...and struggling to stay rooted. That is the enigma of this life for me, it seems. I am a starving artist/writer/hippie chick. I am also a mother. Many of these life roles never cross one another. It's exhausting to be so many people, to be so secret. But that is me. And I do everything exceptionally well...a perfectionist, the therapists always said. Except, I don't see any of them anymore (the therapists). All my relationships are satisfied. All lines are said. At the end of the day nothing is left undone...except for myself.
And that is why I write. That is where this blog comes in. This is the place where I can undress the things I have to say, decipher my true nakedness from all the shit I have to wear everyday.
My mind is a cesspool of unlived wishes, star-crossed desires. The will to break out of this old skin. Music relieves some of this need...or is relieved bad word usage? Music allows me to inhabit these experiences in a way that makes sense. A way that feels good. Just the way writing is an outlet. Or photography. Or sitting in an empty room screaming. They all work in the same way, in the fact that I can empty this vessel of my mind, give flight to my feeligs so they no longer weigh me down. Dream on paper, dream to the beat of someone else's writing. I'll be sharing all that here...the poems that touch me. The songs that pull me back and up...the memories attributed to the lyrics.
And all my confessions. Long, drawn and perfunctatory amid the midnight hours while everyone else sleeps and my dreams keep me from slumber.
I'm a mess, I'll admit. But, usually, I wouldn't want to change this. Not the mania, nor the lows....okay, the lows don't have to get that low (though they usually do).
Be my friend. Hold my proverbial hand. Read with me as I write. That's really all any writer could ask for.
Take me as I am. I'm all here. Comment if you can relate. Comment if you have something meaningful to say. Hell, say hello if that's all you want to tell me. But, sometimes, I'd like to know you're there. That at least, someone, somewhere, is reading me. I guess that's all most of us want (who write via blogs) is to believe we aren't just another insignificant.
The breakdown: I'm in my early thirties. Bi-polar. My life is rittled with a series of mood swings and silly anxieties. Shhh. Don't judge me. I've been in a relationship for three years...but now my eye is wandering. I'm always wandering...and struggling to stay rooted. That is the enigma of this life for me, it seems. I am a starving artist/writer/hippie chick. I am also a mother. Many of these life roles never cross one another. It's exhausting to be so many people, to be so secret. But that is me. And I do everything exceptionally well...a perfectionist, the therapists always said. Except, I don't see any of them anymore (the therapists). All my relationships are satisfied. All lines are said. At the end of the day nothing is left undone...except for myself.
And that is why I write. That is where this blog comes in. This is the place where I can undress the things I have to say, decipher my true nakedness from all the shit I have to wear everyday.
My mind is a cesspool of unlived wishes, star-crossed desires. The will to break out of this old skin. Music relieves some of this need...or is relieved bad word usage? Music allows me to inhabit these experiences in a way that makes sense. A way that feels good. Just the way writing is an outlet. Or photography. Or sitting in an empty room screaming. They all work in the same way, in the fact that I can empty this vessel of my mind, give flight to my feeligs so they no longer weigh me down. Dream on paper, dream to the beat of someone else's writing. I'll be sharing all that here...the poems that touch me. The songs that pull me back and up...the memories attributed to the lyrics.
And all my confessions. Long, drawn and perfunctatory amid the midnight hours while everyone else sleeps and my dreams keep me from slumber.
I'm a mess, I'll admit. But, usually, I wouldn't want to change this. Not the mania, nor the lows....okay, the lows don't have to get that low (though they usually do).
Be my friend. Hold my proverbial hand. Read with me as I write. That's really all any writer could ask for.
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