Some days

There's a boy I refuse to call, for at least another month, because he can't look me in the eye and tell me I'm what he wants. I spent 5 months, NOT dating him, because he couldn't deal with the anxiety he was sure it would cause him to have a long distance relationship.

There's a boy I refuse to call, for at least another month, who haunts my mind when I'm least expecting it. Who shows up in my thoughts when I'm minding my own business. Who catches me with my heart undressed, wondering at my world, and what it would be like to have him in it.

There's a boy I told to piss off for at least another 4-6 months, til I can get my head back on "hi" terms. Til I can get my heart back on "hey, how's it goin'?" terms. Til I can unwrap myself from the fact that he feels like home, but likely equates to the death of a small town Homecoming Queen...maybe, just maybe.

I'm not sorry for it. I miss him like crazy. But I have to ask myself if I'm missing something that really feeds my life, or something I WISH would feed my life. Do I miss him because he's really something special? Or because he's the last one I really focused on?...only time will tell I suppose...damn it all anyway.

Go Granny Go

My grandmother asked me the other night, what "that blue spot" on my chin was, if it was a place where someone had kissed me to hard?

The story of the "blue" spot being a discolored, dime-size patch where a mid-season, scorpion face-plant scuffed my chin and left it to tan at a different rate, pales in comparison to the fact that Grandma knows what a hickey is. Furthermore, she's inquiring after what she believes to be a hickey on my face. Go Grandma.

Burn baby burn

The truth is, I hate blogging. As much for my own fear of being misunderstood or misinterpreted, as for the angsty, self-centered, public diary category I place it in. For the same reasons I refuse to go to yoga class, I refuse to take blogging seriously: it's trendy, there's a scene, I might not look good enough in my tight pants, and I will be surrounded in mirrors letting me know just how ridiculous I am likely to look. Basically, I am not comfortable with exposing myself publicly for scrutiny and opinions that scare me. At the same time, I long for the opportunity to throw it all out there, and not give a shit.

I was listening the other day, to some friends playing a jam session. It occurred to me as they played, each listening to what the other had to offer in written songs and solos, that it wasn't about getting it perfect or right. It was about telling their stories and simply being heard.

I recently came across the quote "What is to give light, must endure burning." as the inspiration for The Sun, magazine, dedicated to publishing the works of authors who touch on the human condition in ways that inspire our sense of connectedness, to one another and the world around us.

It occurs to me, that it's not the stage I crave. I do not want or need the attention of a public venue in order to receive approval, and am furthermore terrified by the possibility of criticism. It's simply the desire to share and not apologize for the sound or strength of my own voice. The wish to live my life fully and at large, not fearing my own drive or enthusiasm to grow and pursue what I love. The wish to somehow share that with the air waves, with the Universe, with other hearts and minds in the world who know what it is to long and the inevitable humanness that keeps us sometimes from holding true to what we want with all our existence, to believe is real and attainable. To endure burning, so as to give off the light that each of us is capable of giving and to insist on burning, especially when we feel exhausted and burned out.