Is hard to describe.
It is the kind of house that holds together though cement fails to fill the hollowed parts.
It is the kind of house that thrives on flames and sparks.
Could be miles away, but still I can proudly proclaim that I am home.
And I shall indeed be home.
And sometimes, I take to wandering beyond the reach of my maps
On those trips, I am rarely able to find the road back, but I know somewhere in the dense foliage, my home’s warm hearth is lit
And the ones I love wait for my return.
When I travel, and there is an unfamiliar fork in the road,
Whether I steer east or west, I trust I shall be received with open arms at the end of the lane,
And the kettle shall be boiling on the stove,
And the scent of baking bread shall drift from the kitchen,
And dinner shall be served at seven o’ clock.
And I need not always know where to go, because when I am lost, home will find me.
And when I need be lost, it shall set me free.
Is a place I’ve known well,
And it is a place that the future has yet to reveal.
There I shall stay,
There I am still.
Is where my heart shall stand still.
Ladies and gentlemen,
We may have a problem.
It’s a disease, no, an epidemic
And for all its creeping in the daylight,
I’m surprised we haven’t noticed it just yet.
It started with him and with her and with me and with you,
With our hearts filled to the brim with love, and the desire to find someone worthy to love.
For some reason,
As if by keeping it within of us our insides would rot,
We search the globe for that one person to share ourselves with.
And then it starts.
We regurgitate the words, our emotions latched on for the ride,
And we trade as if it were the most fashionable currency
Hoping, I think, that generosity should somehow yield reciprocity
But ‘an eye for an eye’ only works in war.
In love, we more likely say ‘here I am, take me’
Before we know what’s good for us
And in the end, we will have our hearts handed back to us,
Like a return package with its wrapping damp from the rain,
Along with the statement:
“I am sorry, I cannot have you.
You cannot expect me to.”
History has a knack for repeating itself.
No two moments are precisely the same, but just twenty four hours after midnight, and we’re back where we started.
The morning after, we’ll find another Cinderella apt on losing her shoe after passing out on some stranger’s couch.
The two halves of the day begin and end with streaks of pink and purple bathing the clouds in its majestic colour.
The more I stare, the more it amazes me.
And tomorrow, it will amaze me again, and the day next and the day after that.
History has a knack for repeating itself
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when you—with your crooked smile and sarcastic tone—showed up again.
The first time you ever showed up, I thought you were as rare as Haley's Comet,
And I was not wrong.
You blazed through my skies and disappeared in the blink of an eye.
To this date, the flame that you’ve lit in my chest has been matched by no one,
And the only time history lit me back up was when serendipity decided to bring you back.
Just as history would have it, I am still brilliant at being invisible--
And I thought I’d have learned my lesson by now.
I thought I’d learned how there was never a ‘we’ and there never will be.
You pulled me in and I felt the warmth radiate from your heart.
Like a coal, I caught fire, and I thought that by blazing bright, fate would allow me to stay by your side.
Instead, you left me hanging at the edge of the cliff, my feet dangling in nothing but space.
History has a knack for repeating itself.
Time and again, you arms reach out and grasp the space around me:
A chair to sit on, a glass of water, the words that I have spewed
But your hands never find me.
And I’m tired of hoping that they do.
But still, the ones of my future are pit against you as the perfect standard:
Replacements meant to act out the ending history never gave us.
The timing was all wrong, and the puzzle pieces didn’t fit.
I don’t call you my past because I’m still hoping for history to be rewritten.
But history has a knack for repeating itself.
The two halves of the day will meet with streaks of pink and purple bathing the clouds in its majestic colour.
I used to dream of distant lands and boats that would take me across the oceans
Onto distant shorelines of rock and sand
But you’ve changed that.
Now, my dreams are nightmares.
Now, I dream of here
Where the roads do not wind themselves around the ruins of history
Where the roads do not wind at all.
I used to dream of sleeping on hammocks hanging from palm trees,
Fending off mosquitoes just as I fend off the fickle feeling of constancy
But you’ve changed that.
Now, the only thing I wish to fend off is my wanderlust--
The characteristic quirks I’ve picked up from my crib
Are now identical to the thorn on my side.
I used to surf the internet’s obscure corners for stories and poems
Those lives I have not lived myself but live through lines of prose
And forests of gold and clouds of colour
But you’ve changed that.
Now I surf social media sites searching for your fingerprints
Unsatisfied with yesterday’s conversation.
I used to hate texting as a means of communication.
The insincerity of the act was enough to make me cringe.
Now, my inbox is filled with meaningless messages that really mean I miss you
And I hope you miss me too.
Where “are you free?” really means “I want to see you desperately.”
And the funny thing is how I love you but not in ‘that’ way kind of love you.
I do not wish for my fingers laced into yours.
I do not wish for my presence to accompany you underneath your sheets
Unless we are both clothed and playing amidst them like the children I’ve always believed we are.
And I suppose I like this funny thing about the way I love you but not in ‘that’ way kind of love you.
You have changed me.
And I don’t like that.
In fact, that’s an understatement.
I am repulsed by what you have done to me.
Bile physically lurches up my throat at the thought of whom I have become.
The worst part in all of this
If, perchance, we as a unit fall apart
Is how I don’t know how to go back.
Love for chocolate is a complicated sort of love.
It’s a constant struggle between belief and desire—and whatever comes in between that.
Chocolate, after all, in excess makes a person fat—as does any food in excess, really, but for some reason, though I can stop myself from eating rice or pancakes or (arguably) sushi, it’s much harder for me to stop myself from eating chocolate.
Don’t get me wrong. This has nothing to do with vanity. I’m all for healthy people who do not have gaps between their thighs, but I am against fat lined arteries, and cholesterol circles around the iris. I’d like to keep myself off the IV drip, thank you very much.
And yet, this rational becomes less of a priority when confronted with that delectable block of rich, dark chocolate.
How could I resist?
Does that mean that I have ignored the significant fact that chocolate will make me fat? Or does it mean I just don’t believe it will? Or am I just a glutton for chocolate?
Which brings me to a completely different, but obscurely related topic: why is there a cognitive dissonance (cognitive dissonance is just a fancy way of saying that my mind and my body do not want to cooperate) between what I do and what I believe?
I don’t have a definitive answer for this just yet, but I do have multiple theories.
The one that’s winning out at the moment is a pretty strange theory. Here it is: believing is a process and, as a human, so am I.
As a human, I admit that I’m currently undergoing this constant process of metamorphosis. Some days, I feel completely myself. I feel like I’ve arrived at that point where my beliefs drive my thoughts and my thoughts somehow translate themselves into actions and everything goes according to planned. Other days, and I suppose these days are more common, I feel like I am lost within my own life—as if the day has robbed me of my consciousness and my body and my thoughts are acting on their own accord, conspiring against all I hold dear. I would fall asleep and dream of myself, but wake and find that I was still trapped in a being devoid of me. And when I would finally feel my thoughts and actions cease their rebellion, I would be so repulsed by all they have done.
If belief is supposed to drive my thoughts and actions, but I am not always entirely myself—if I find myself falling back into old beliefs and old habits—it does not mean I believe any less. I suppose it just means that I’m just not very good at believing just yet. Faith is a difficult concept precisely because we’re all undergoing our own sort of metamorphic process, and a person’s faith, though present, isn’t always perfect.
It’s not even toying with the idea of ‘long term’ versus ‘short term’ gratification or what’s good or bad. It’s about what drives me to even consider those types of situations because believing in something—really believing in something—is more than just what I fill out on an application form. Believing that the earth is round, for example, drives the fear of falling off the non-existent edge away.
And maybe that’s the trouble of believing: it’s different from knowing. There’s a sort of knowing that comes from being in that moment and just knowing in that moment. Gravity is not this kind of knowing. I know gravity exists because it’s right here, every second of every day. In contrast, believing in God is not knowing per se because I’ve never physically seen God. I can argue that I’ve encountered Him, and in that moment, I knew but I can’t say that I’ve actually seen him in the flesh.
Which is why I adore this elvish word Tolkien came up with (which I cannot type in English). The elves do not have an elvish word for the word ‘believe’ which we often use interchangeably with the word ‘faith.’ Tolkien never meant for the elves to even require the word. In elvish tradition, the elves need not have faith because they were faithful to what they always knew to be true—that they were Children of the One (basically, this phrase means they’re elves). I’ll keep from explaining the intricacies of Tolkien’s world, because it would take far too many words and would be besides the point.
The elves have a word for that—for remaining faithful to what they always knew to be true, even if that truth was not before their eyes at that very moment.
In some ways, I wish I was more like Tolkien’s elves who did not waiver in what they knew to be true: so much so that they did not require the word faith in their vocabulary.
I suppose this is the reason it’s more difficult to connect beliefs to thoughts to actions. Doubt exists—and that doesn’t make belief disappear. It doesn’t negate the presence of belief altogether either. It just means that sometimes, it’s not so easy to believe in things.