It finally happened.

Well...living in the clouds came with a risk. I took it and fell. Welp, now it just means I've learned my lesson and can move on. It's going to be great now, I know it. Although, I find myself suddenly loving songs about revenge...

I'm sorry

I'm sorry I have
This disease.
But it's not contagious, don't worry.
You keep your distance, and I guess I can see where you're coming from. I can kind of understand why you wouldn't want to be around me, at least while I have
This disease.

I'm sorry I'm not
the same anymore.
But someday it might go away.
You can see my face light up at the sight of you, and you see my hands and knees trembling. You see my eyes glisten and you know why things between us aren't
the same anymore.

I'm sorry
you don't feel the same.
But when I think about it, I'm kind of glad you aren't as sick.
People get along much better when they are both afflicted, but it also means that neither can nurse the other. So maybe I really am happy that
you don't feel the same.

I'm sorry I can't hide
my disease.
But if it gets any worse, I'll quarantine myself.
Because there are no doctors who can prescribe, no apothecaries to cure such a petrifying malady. So please be patient as I bear through
my disease.

I hear it's only fatal sometimes.

Living in the clouds

When you're living in the clouds, it sometimes gets hard to breathe. The butterflies in my stomach sometimes try to fly away with me. Jumping for joy can lead to injuries. Dreamy can often be just that: a dream.

But this time, that's ok.

What a night...

Well, I've had the same two people haunting my dreams for the past little while. I decided I wanted to be distracted from the worries I've been having about them, so I began to read New Moon. I knew I wouldn't be able to put it down. And I didn't. At least, not until I was exhausted and almost all the way through the book at 3:30am. During the few hours of sleep, I dreamed about places and people I don't remember, but in the end I was back in my apartment talking to Watermelon and Clarissa. There might have been a third person, but I'm not sure. I just remember saying to them "New Moon is like the story of my life. Without the physical contact, of course." For some reason, I said it three times. I woke up, and rushed to work, not only trying to be on time, but trying to distract myself from the things that once again began to creep into my mind. So, trying to think of something else, I thought about my strange dream. And I knew it was true.

I know that finishing the book will not tell me the end of my story. As I've thought about different aspects of the book, and more and more of them fit into this parallel of my life at this point, it's been a relief to think that maybe my book has a happy ending in this regard as well. I definitely am not as melodramatic as Bella is anymore. That ended for the most part after junior high. However, I must admit that every once in a while, the wound she describes applies to me: I'm metaphorically just as full of holes.

Contemplation

I feel kinda like a pruned rosebush. At the very peak of my bloom, and bright happiness, the winter came, and all my flowers were cut away. I will grow back. And I suppose no one meant any menace in the pruning. But it does hurt. It's ok, though. Weekends don't always have to be fun, I guess. Being alone...like the number 3 in a bowl of alphabet soup.

As the Spring wakes the Winter

The day has fallen, and the night sits in its usual place. Oh, how still the air. Oh, how content is the moon. The snow shines and smiles to its celestial cousins, the stars. To be the wind, who walks througout, silent. To be the sun, who wakes the stillness, and warms the cold. To be the road, who eases the way, and does not complain of its sacrifice. To be the Spring who has her Summer to make her brighter, stronger. Living one for the other. As the Summer wakes the Spring, the Spring wakes the winter. Does the Spring love the Winter? no. He waits for her, unwaivering, true, quiet. Then she returns, full of glory, waking him from his cold tranquility. He shines and welcomes the Spring. He lets go of his beautiful, snowy coat to please her. He puts on as much warmth as he has within him to show his devotion. But Spring does not know. She belongs still to the Summer. She sees and thinks only of him. Is it any wonder that in his supreme loneliness he howls? Any true marvel that he bites and snaps? As the Spring wakes the Winter, and captivates him, so does she destroy him. He does not see his own beauty, because she lives ever to melt. She lives ever to look to the Summer, and not to the past. Autumn is jealous, and lives for no one. She does her best to destroy the Summer, wanting him to love no one but her. Still she is powerless to destroy his vibrancy. Still she has ever been powerless to win his love. And still, the winter is alone.

The Wind Dance

Gusts the size of cannonballs, strength of trees tested. Bare feet and hair let loose. The wind is mighty, and roars its dominion. But I laugh. There is no one else upon that field of grass. Only me and the bipolar phenomenon of nature. This morning, that wind caressed my cheek, softened the heat. Now, it yells and pushes. Still, I laugh. For though he pushes me softly and pretends to wish me harm, this wind will be quiet again, will be loving again. We will be friends again. But for now, I dance.