Tides

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I grew up by lakes and streams
Simpler things
People were
Quiet and
Reserved
They didn’t pay you any mind
If you gave them no reason to

We lived
We breathed
We just
Were

Now oceanside
These tides are different
Everyone moves fast
Like all they care about
Is being noticed
They lack
In purpose
In intent
In sincerity

Maybe bigger isn’t better

The freedom of no horizon
Seems fanciful
But where do you go
When you feel
Lost?

-DFP-

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Mensonges

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Je te aime
Je t’aime
J’ t’aime
Jt’aime
Et pourtant ça ce peut
Que ces mensonges
Ne vaut plus la peine

C’est magnifique
Le façon que
Tu pirouette
Avec mon coeur
J’ai maintenant le temps
Pour déménagez mes sentiments

On pourrait peut-être 
Loué une cabine
Ou même l’espace 
Où on devrait retrouvez
Votre fierté

 

-DFP-

Triggers

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A whole new day
Begins with
Commotion
I never woke
Katy
She cried
It’s just
Common sense

Static’s on the
Radio
All night long
I never made
It home
I ran out of
Steam
Two feet from
The doorstep

Nobody’s putting
A foot to
The peddle
I’m tired
Of writing things
That make sense 

I didn’t say
I wanted to kill myself
Just that
I wanted to
Die
It’s just
Common sense
Katy
She kept on
Crying

————♦————

“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.”

I wish I could be, an emotional-history revisionist.

They say that the victors of war, are the ones who write history. In love, are there really any winners if it ends in heartbreak? I suppose it’s those who do the leaving. While they may come away scarred, ultimately they get the privilege of causing the most damage.

They get to make the clean break.
They get to hold the answers, withholding them if they see fit.
They get to dictate future interaction, or lack thereof.

Of course, they also don’t have to live with the same sentimentality day to day. When you make the decision to break off a relationship, it immediately dulls any nostalgia that can be traced back to certain things. Your time is over with that particular connection, therefore severing the need for emotional attachment to places or objects. Those who choose to end things, don’t have to live with: seeing the lamp-post you were leaning against, when I first saw your beautiful smile; or passing by restaurant we had our first dinner date.

Nor do they still struggle with rushing for the Richmond-Brighouse train vs. The YVR Airport one. Not that it has ever made a difference to my commute home; it just always felt cozier in my heart to take YOUR train.

Those triggers are just the ones trained on me daily; they open up much deeper wounds. Thoughts upon thoughts that never seem to cease. Scars that re-open every time I think of:

Our first hug (vice grip tight – I still feel it to this day)
How you were almost always quicker to text first after a date (unless I cheated)
The way you hissed your S’s for emphasis (aww yisss)
Our first kiss on the train platform (one on the nose)
The first time I saw you dance (so beautiful and carefree)
How even though you hate asparagus, you still ate it when I made it
How my hand fit so beautifully into the crook of your back (and how safe it felt)
How a popsicle would please you more than a fancy dinner (Rockets of course)
How Batman will forever be tied to you (Bane voices on the bus)
How I’ll never be able to watch Game of Thrones, no matter how hard I try (I’ll just hear your voice mocking: “Khaleesi” and “Not without my Dragons”)
The way your eyes lit up when discussing your Master’s Thesis

I could go on.

I carry these thoughts day after day after day. I didn’t get to decide I stopped loving you. I didn’t even get to hear when and why you stopped loving me. Armed with that hurt, I could re-write you to all my friends, as a cold, uncaring, horrible wench. The problem with that is, I’ve never been a very good fiction writer.

I didn’t get to make the clean break you did. There is only one way I could have that kind of ending.

Let it be known to history that:

I will always remember you as sweet and kind. Patient to a fault with my weird idiosyncrasies. Beautiful in every way. From your sparkling eyes, bright joyful smile, the sweet slow cadence of your voice, crazy hair, loving heart, and giving soul. In our short time together, I feel like I have enough memories to fill a lifetime…so even though I still lie awake, sleepless almost every single night, I’ll always have nothing but tender thoughts and love for you in my heart.

-DFP-

Unpacking

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The thought of your
Smile
Means more to my
Well-being
Than I could ever 
Explain

Even if you have to
Fake it 
For a small moment
In time
I’d waste everything
Away

Just to imagine you
Lighting up
My day

————♦————

I’m a terribly unorganized person.

Rather, as it pertains to my own personal space, I’m a terribly unorganized person.

I don’t just mean in a physical sense, either. Sure, my room is typically messy. I’m talking from an emotional and mental standpoint, though. In both situations, I can throw together the illusion of tidiness pretty well.

The problem is: I usually just bury the clutter somewhere else.

With my room, I usually end up sticking things in boxes. You could accuse me of being over-sentimental, I wouldn’t argue. I have holiday cards from eons ago, tiny notes my mum leaves in the packages she has sent over the years, playbills, ticket stubs; I even have a sizeable collection of used Sky Train tickets. A lot of these things pile up, inevitably getting shoved into a box. Nothing really gets sorted, tidied, or addressed, just packed away for later.

Just like emotions.

I compartmentalize a lot of what goes on in my head. People and relationships come and go, and I rarely ever fully experience them. This usually leaves a looming sense of non-closure over my memories. Over-sentimentality doesn’t work well internally. After packing your emotional baggage, you’re supposed to move on. You’re supposed to empty that luggage, and fill it with more practical feelings.

The trouble is: being comfortable enough to show people your dirty laundry. It’s much easier to assume they’ll be turned off by the sight, rather than be the first to jump in to help you wash it.

I’ve got lots of bags, boxes, and suitcases to unpack. Some are tangible, which may be a good place to start. Others need a little more time, and probably a helping hand to tackle.

Anyone out there handy with a washboard?

-DFP-

Moonlight Spy

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If this blog were a pet, it surely would have passed on from lack of feeding. I can’t seem to find my way back on here.

The ideas begin to bubble, before quickly cooling.

There has been so much on my mind the last few weeks; so little of it can I make sense enough to put into words. Someone told me not too long ago: “Keep at it” in regards to this blog. I haven’t done a very good job at that. I always imagined this would be a place of catharsis, or renewal. Instead, it creates more tangled knots in my head as I search for things to write.

So I’ll just dip into the vault…

 

♦♦♦

Bedtime visits
Remain my only solace
On these cold nights

Locked in your sanctuary
You wouldn’t dare
Show the world
Your face

You find it highly
Unprofessional
To allow outsiders
A glimpse
Of what you hide
Behind that mask

So I sneak up
To your room
Each night
A moonlight spy if you will
In hopes that
One day
I’ll be visible

For a single moment

-DFP-