I decided that if I can not find love in America, I will find it somewhere else. I will just outsource love. I hear France is in an over abundance of love. They just give it out freely, free love I think they call it…or prostitution, I am not sure which.
Do you believe in putting energy out there? That if you say what you want the universe will find a way to bring you what you ask? My mind races with questions that have no answers and wishes that I fear only live in vain. This could be a tipsy rambling or finally the feelings from somewhere that never had the courage to admit it’s presence. So here I am. Putting it out there. Because at the end of the day I want to believe that I have some control, that I do not have to keep it to myself. That to jinx something is nothing more than an idea that holds no validity. So what’s my truth you ask? There are so many confessions, so many truths I wish to blurt out all at once. But for now, the one that I wont keep in is this: I have a crush. It seems so silly to even say it outloud. To let the world know something so trivial. But it is a start. That is the point of all of this. To learn to let go. Let go of social ideals and expectations. That my truth is no better or worse than yours. So I stand by my truth. My confession. At the end of the day you must remember this, “You regret the times you tell a lie more than the times you tell the truth.”
I must learn to let go.
From a book I am reading. Perspective.
“You eat fast because revulsion’s chasing you. When it catches you - seeks you out like the long arm of the law - you’ll have to stop, you won’t be able to go on.”
Cris Cab - Rihanna’s Gun
Obsessed.
Guilty pleasure: can’t sleep, I at times peruse the world wide web looking at ugly tattoos. Tonight I came across this little gem. Minus the growing the beard part, I am totally on board with this.
I don’t know why, but this reminds me of you. I scream it out loud in hopes you will know how I feel.
A dreamer. That is what you may call me. Not the label of helpless romantic, but someone who dreams of romance. There is more hope, more possibilities in dreams. Helpless warrants the images of loss, of regrets, of the possibilities that will never come to pass. Yet I have not stopped dreaming. I smile still at those that posses what I do not. A dreamer. Yes. I do like the sounds of that.
There is this bench. Empty. Under a single lamp. Behind the Walgreens. I am sure it is for the part-time employees. Somewhere to sit while they inhale their dreams of being a rock star only to exhale their disillusioned life. A smoke break some people call it. A so-called haven from the perpetual cycle of their minimum-wage job. The job that doesn’t pay the bills but relieves some of the nagging from a disappointed parent or a disenchanted significant other. There the bench sits. Empty. It is there under my window. I didn’t notice it before. It sort of appeared into my view. Just sitting there under a single lamp. Empty. It seems so wanting. Almost as though he doesn’t belong, but content on waiting. The irony of it I hope does not escape you. That which is made for the waiting, waits for that which it longs for. There is sits under this single lamp. Empty. There is no significant charm to it. Not one you would see in central park or even at one of those fancy bus stops. You know the ones that they build to make riding public transportation seem cool, hip even. But there is something there, something if you look close enough. A scratch here and there. A story of some drunk who crashed into it, a homeless man who needed a place to rest, an employee who needed to put out a butt. A certain personality to it. Empty. But wanting. I wonder if it dreams of an existence different from it’s own. To be the bench staring in the Broadway production of Waiting for Godot, the lead in an epic metaphor. Or perhaps the bench that people engrave their memories for the generations to see, “Where I met my wife. Forever and a day.” But who am I to assume. Perhaps under this single lamp is where it is meant to be. Empty. I promise to watch over it. To sit and wait with him. To be as wanting as the bench. Empty is but a fleeting sensation. Tomorrow will come as it always does. Workers will smoke, homeless will sit and patrons will wait. And the bench and I will be wanting and waiting. The irony in which I hope does not escape you.
(a photo soon to follow)
