March 18, 2017
You, soft-spoken with penetrating green eyes.
Me, high-strung with the warm and always giddy smile.
Us, fiery and furiously in love.
Like the moon and stars, always just short of colliding.
I love you so bad.
You, gentle and never menacing.
Me, obscured by infatuation.
Us, clingy and disgustingly in love.
I love you so bad.
You, irrevocably beautiful.
Me, timid with a throbbing heart.
I love you so bad.
You, outgoing and kind.
Me, messy and overwhelming.
Us, oddly inspiring.
I love you so bad.
You, punctual and right.
Me, clumsily wandering and star-struck.
Us, slightly magical.
I love you so bad.
A long pause and
A deep breath and
The Earth is silent.
More silent than I’ve ever not heard.
Not even the sound of footsteps
No ears ringing or
Children yelling or
Cars murmuring or
Tires squealing or
Blood rushing through
Frozen fingers and
Frigid cheeks and
From the ice-cold.
The best kind of numb.
The numb that eliminates
Single words that
Mean not only something but
“You are alive and well, and that’s enough.”
Referring to the way Western society handles choices and decision-making, Barry Schwartz says, “And the question is…Is this good news, or bad news? And the answer is ‘yes.’ We all know what’s good about it, so I’m going to talk about what’s bad about it. All this choice has two effects, two negative effects on people. One effect, paradoxically, is that it produces paralysis rather than liberation.” Theoretically speaking, I believe that we as humans are influenced by the societies we live in—including our peers, authority figures, and idols. When Barry spoke on the issues arising in our Western society, it reminded me that not all of our choices are our own—even though it may seem as if they are. Not all of our decisions are made by our own accord. In my experience, most decisions we make are based on what society tells us to be true. Therefore, even our dreams and aspirations are not our own. We dream of being our own person, having the most unique personality, living our most luxurious or efficient lives, and so forth. But do we really ever account for our parents’ behaviors when we were children; our friends’ interests, based on the television shows they watch and their older siblings’ favorite activities; or even whether we’ve had a religious upbringing? It’s all relative to who we are. And who we are, when it dwindles down, are very alike in a lot more ways than not. We’re basically made up of other people’s beliefs, with a hint of our own personalities. Some are less vulnerable to change than others, but maybe that’s out of our control. It’s human nature to question our own existence, but what about when time ceases to exist? After all, time is a man-made concept, and after death, does it truly matter how much time we had in this life rather than the extent to which we went to enhance the quality of it? That quality is only enhanced by the things we experience and what we do with those experiences, which leads us back to the influences we have on each other. “Living” implies that we’ve touched others or influenced them with our experiences or quality of life. “Surviving” merely suggests we are going through the motions of our daily life without giving much intention to whose thoughts we’ve influenced. Are we all just one big paradox of a species?
I’m waiting for the moment you say you’re sorry, months from now, when I’ve finally had the energy to transform into someone new and someone better.
Waiting for that moment so I can laugh and brag about how lovely my life has become without a parasite always attached to my core.
So I can tell you how much I’ve grown to love myself without you.
The way I see it, there’s a puzzled look on your face right after I finish the “Fuck you.” With a period instead of rambling forward with a list of reasons why.
And I’ll smile while I sip my iced mocha in the September breeze and watch you walk away.
It’s been months since I’ve heard from you, and I won’t allow myself to even pretend to care… you obviously couldn’t pretend long enough to send me even a heartfelt
“I care about you, but I’m fearful of what’s to come so I’ll act like you don’t exist until you write an angry poem about me, and then I’ll come running back and tell you I won’t do it again. And then I will, because I’m an incredibly immature asshole.”
I promised I’d always be honest with you and I’m damn-right going to hold myself to it.
I mean it when I say I wish you well.
You’ve taught me to love myself enough to let go of people who treat me like the one they want to talk to only when they’ve run out of better options.
Yes, I get that you’re doing the best you can with what you know right now.
I told you it doesn’t make you a bad person, which is true, but the part I left out is the part I hope you learn from.
I hope you learn from your emotions.
I hope you learn not to treat others like they don’t matter just because you’re hurting.
And I also hope you read this not-so-poetic-angry-poem.
The seasons are changing, and I’m changing with them.
Love always, Rach.
5/28/16 (Old, but revised.)
My father told me the story of his youth
And how he’s grown old and his father has died
And how he wishes he could remember all of the moments from his “golden years”
“Those were the days, man.” He said.
And I looked up at him, teary-eyed
And thought about how sad everything feels now; even if I can find joy in certain, perfectly lit, almost too-good-to-be-real moments.
Like a photograph.
And if I’ll remember these days as my “golden years.”
And what happens if I don’t¬¬—
If everything I remember is gray and still, like a poorly lit room during a storm that’s lasted days after days after days.
And then we sit there laughing our guts out,
Like everything is okay when it’s not.
And I turn away and my thoughts wander to the same old soundtrack.
The one of monachopsis.
The one that sings about how difficult life is when you can’t pretend you’ve found the meaning in it, or hold it together just one more day.
The symphony’s sweetest sound is when lyrics are tied together in just the right knot.
Round and round and round and round and round.
I’m on the tilt-a-whirl at the fair.
It’s a still summer night.
I throw my head back
I picture this image as I sit,
Waiting for you to call.
And the phone doesn’t ring
And doesn’t ring
And doesn’t ring.
I make my way out of bed
Not even fumbling for the light switch.
It’s late evening, and my palms are sweaty.
My head spins like I’ve been on a rollercoaster.
I look in the mirror
And see skin white as a sheet,
I fumble back to bed.
The phone still doesn’t ring.
14 minutes later,
a text: sorry, I’ve been out all day.
“Hey!! It’s okay haha, I’m sure you were busy. How was your day?”
A revolution doesn’t always mean weapons and protests and war.
A revolution can mean love.
Love: an intense feeling of deep affection.
It can mean peace.
Peace: freedom from or the cessation of war or violence.
It can mean harmony.
Harmony: agreement or concord.
A revolution is not always “a forcible overthrow of a government or social order in favor of a new system.”
Revolution: an instance of revolving.
Compassion is the new war.
What would happen if we loved all our neighbors like the bible told us to?
What if we started looking at the bible as just a book, and started listening to the messages God gives us in our everyday lessons?
What would God tell you? What kind of advice would he give?
Imagine words coming out of our mouths like perfectly harmonized symphonies.
True inner peace comes from loving yourself—not forcing others to love you.
What would the world look like if we started empathizing?
If we started forgiving ourselves for our “sins?”
Jesus isn’t the “answer.”
We are the revolution.
Messy is late summer nights with frizzy hair and glowing skin.
It’s hands sticky with pancake syrup and the goo that comes from a melted popsicle.
But messy is also writer’s block and overthinking and racing thoughts and overattachment and crying and sleeping the day away.
Messy is the world when mercury is in retrograde. When everything feels a little backwards and you don’t know why.
Messy is you and I, or maybe just me.
Messy in the not-so-good way.
Whether America is ready or not, here they come—mass shootings, brutal murders, fatality at its “finest.” Maybe I’ve never been mature enough to pay attention, but what I do know is Orlando’s mass shooting has been the most fatal in America to date. 49 murdered, 53 severely wounded.
A thousand thoughts run through my mind as I write this. “What was the purpose?” “How could a human being, just like you and I, have the audacity and the malevolence to kill almost 102 people and hold others hostage for three agonizing hours?” “Since when does pledging allegiance mean anything other than ‘I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America’?” Those are a mere percentage.
I’m thinking of the cruelty of a man, Omar Mateen, and the downright disgust I feel when thinking about how distorted someone must be to pledge their allegiance to the Islamic State in the name of Allah. It’s twisted and nauseating.
Despite that, I’m also thinking of a son or daughter, or sister or brother’s long-held secret being disclosed to their family and friends with a feeling of anguish and words of sorrow. I’m afraid for the people of the LGBTQ+ community—especially those who have not yet outted themselves. Everyone deserves to have a safe-haven; and those who were killed, injured, or traumatized by the incident no longer have that. The safety of others is important, and it absolutely repulses me to know that someone could have so much hate in their heart that they would open gun fire on an entire gay club so near to Pride Day. I’m even more-so afraid of what may happen if the United States’ gun control laws don’t change very quickly.