I'm tired.
I wake up tired and stay up all night, too paranoid to go to sleep. I rest on my sword, weary of battle but eager to live. I nap throughout the day, pulling my eyelids from one nightmare to the next and weaving my day with strands of memory from happier times, only slightly poisoned with the fallout of the most recent fight.
Love?
I do not know love, haven't been sure of anything like this feeling since my ex. I feel no butterflies, no spark, no tingles in the spine that signify excitement when my husband is near. I look on him as a puppy-bomb: cute and innocent, yet consistently in danger of destroying himself and others with his ineptitude. I play my husband above all others in terms of the importance of his needs and I consider that to be the closest emotion to love I can feel and even that bears a more logical stamp than emotional.
I'm tired.
There are political posts every day about grand schemes that will not affect me. There are bombs in far-off countries and cries of war, but both sides only want to see themselves succeed at the expense of the other. We fight a civil war that has long since lost all civility. The newspapers are filled with gossip about celebrities and terrorists with a small paragraph dedicated to that one good thing two cities over, always to someone else, always an idea you almost thought of, always for a cause you placed on the back-burner of your mind in terms of importance.
Love?
There is no love. Even those who claim it as a motto do not recognize the emotion of love, only exquisite tolerance and acceptance, only if you shout it from the rooftops can you feel this emotion. Gone are the quiet looks across a fireplace, where you knew your parents loved each other without hearing cries of passion through the walls, without gaudy flower arrangements. When was the last time you viewed love as a sacrifice? Not a grand one, but a small one, an act of such significance it passed you by? My Dad found a huckleberry-flavored chocolate at the store one day and brought it home to my Mom. She thought it tasted good and for 3 years afterwards, he would buy her 5-6 whenever he went to the store, in such quantities that she tired of the taste and pawned them off on her children. She never said anything to him. He remembered her. That is love. She guarded his feelings despite the inconvenience to herself. That is love. Where is that love today?
I'm tired.
My mouth is open and words come out, just words, an opinion based on logical observations about the world. Words are javelins hurled at my heart, my mouth, my feet, removing my voice for commenting on theirs. Discounted, cast aside, I do not agree so I am not important, probably crazy. My reasons are not valid, my logical reasons I have thought about. I am no sheep. I follow no 1 theory or politician completely. And yet, because I disagree, I am an idiot. I sleep every night with blood on my brain, so thick it boils around my ears from the pressure, a thin collection of wires and neurons exposed, ripped apart when I wracked my brain for the logic of their argument.
Love?
Jessica Day is always looking for, and never finding, love. She wants untempered passion, but a mature man who has his life together. She will never find him. The mark of a man (and a woman) is the ability to delay gratification, to restrain your base impulses, to suck it up and do things you don't want to do. An adult, fully functioning, goes to work at a usually thankless job, but recognizes it will lead to better things: they stay with their relationship because they were mature enough to pick a well-rounded, decent person based off maturity and not breasts, knowing the relationship will be hard: they sometimes keep their mouth shut and sometimes wear their heart on their sleeve, always in full control of themselves if not their circumstances. Even Jesus Christ, the Maker of the world, could not control His people, but He always controlled Himself.
I'm tired.
I've never gone so long without running away. I'm tired of standing in one place, everything in me quivering to bolt, every instinct trained on the next horizon. Times get rough and I want to go. Why stick around to ruin everyone's life? Would it not be better if we were apart, no longer together, no longer speaking? Couldn't we move on and be an idea, a memory, an imprint of a ring? How much would you hate me? I fight for the truth and am rejected. I fight for logic and am shut down. I fight for love, for acceptance, to make things better, and all my efforts are in vain. Surely, it is not too much to brush your teeth every day, regardless of exhaustion. Surely I am not remiss in requesting basic hygiene. If I am so wrong, what makes you so right? And why do you hate me for being right? Am I not allowed the same outrage? Would you prefer a meek lamb, softly bleating and prancing after you, bell ringing merrily as I follow your every footstep, a mindless animal you can consume and discard? Does logic, the truth, mean nothing in this society?
Love?
I don't know if I feel it, or if I suppressed it, or what is supposed to happen to me now. How can I talk to him, how can I open up that I feel no love for him and he is not unique? How can I explain that I don't love my family, friends, husband, or child? I don't have the movie romance, I have a semblance of logical reasons to keep them around, small entries of joy, a yellow highlighter on the calendar of my life, muscle memory of a smile. I crash, I bend, I freeze, I do everything except love. So I am a worthless automaton and what has made me this way? And why is it so horrible, so inconceivable, so monstrous, to allow plain facts to dictate action and reaction? Are the Vulcans so despised? Maybe I just don't get excited... but what can I do to excite myself, much less allow others to inspire that same reaction in me.
I don't get excited anymore. Because I feel no rush of adrenaline when meeting him, no powerful wave, I lack ingredients to make myself emotions. I don't like excitement because it prevents me from controlling myself and surprises are rarely in my favor. I cannot be caught off-guard. How can it be that I have haunted the alleys of my mind for so long without recognizing my own ghost? Where is the justice, the friendly hand, the pounding of blood that apparently makes for such a varied and rich life? Did I lose it, somewhere, when he left? Am I as broken as the sister I pity, ruined by a man, unable to feel excitement? Is this realization going to do anything except depress me?
So many questions... and only Tuesday to figure them out.
I wake up tired and stay up all night, too paranoid to go to sleep. I rest on my sword, weary of battle but eager to live. I nap throughout the day, pulling my eyelids from one nightmare to the next and weaving my day with strands of memory from happier times, only slightly poisoned with the fallout of the most recent fight.
Love?
I do not know love, haven't been sure of anything like this feeling since my ex. I feel no butterflies, no spark, no tingles in the spine that signify excitement when my husband is near. I look on him as a puppy-bomb: cute and innocent, yet consistently in danger of destroying himself and others with his ineptitude. I play my husband above all others in terms of the importance of his needs and I consider that to be the closest emotion to love I can feel and even that bears a more logical stamp than emotional.
I'm tired.
There are political posts every day about grand schemes that will not affect me. There are bombs in far-off countries and cries of war, but both sides only want to see themselves succeed at the expense of the other. We fight a civil war that has long since lost all civility. The newspapers are filled with gossip about celebrities and terrorists with a small paragraph dedicated to that one good thing two cities over, always to someone else, always an idea you almost thought of, always for a cause you placed on the back-burner of your mind in terms of importance.
Love?
There is no love. Even those who claim it as a motto do not recognize the emotion of love, only exquisite tolerance and acceptance, only if you shout it from the rooftops can you feel this emotion. Gone are the quiet looks across a fireplace, where you knew your parents loved each other without hearing cries of passion through the walls, without gaudy flower arrangements. When was the last time you viewed love as a sacrifice? Not a grand one, but a small one, an act of such significance it passed you by? My Dad found a huckleberry-flavored chocolate at the store one day and brought it home to my Mom. She thought it tasted good and for 3 years afterwards, he would buy her 5-6 whenever he went to the store, in such quantities that she tired of the taste and pawned them off on her children. She never said anything to him. He remembered her. That is love. She guarded his feelings despite the inconvenience to herself. That is love. Where is that love today?
I'm tired.
My mouth is open and words come out, just words, an opinion based on logical observations about the world. Words are javelins hurled at my heart, my mouth, my feet, removing my voice for commenting on theirs. Discounted, cast aside, I do not agree so I am not important, probably crazy. My reasons are not valid, my logical reasons I have thought about. I am no sheep. I follow no 1 theory or politician completely. And yet, because I disagree, I am an idiot. I sleep every night with blood on my brain, so thick it boils around my ears from the pressure, a thin collection of wires and neurons exposed, ripped apart when I wracked my brain for the logic of their argument.
Love?
Jessica Day is always looking for, and never finding, love. She wants untempered passion, but a mature man who has his life together. She will never find him. The mark of a man (and a woman) is the ability to delay gratification, to restrain your base impulses, to suck it up and do things you don't want to do. An adult, fully functioning, goes to work at a usually thankless job, but recognizes it will lead to better things: they stay with their relationship because they were mature enough to pick a well-rounded, decent person based off maturity and not breasts, knowing the relationship will be hard: they sometimes keep their mouth shut and sometimes wear their heart on their sleeve, always in full control of themselves if not their circumstances. Even Jesus Christ, the Maker of the world, could not control His people, but He always controlled Himself.
I'm tired.
I've never gone so long without running away. I'm tired of standing in one place, everything in me quivering to bolt, every instinct trained on the next horizon. Times get rough and I want to go. Why stick around to ruin everyone's life? Would it not be better if we were apart, no longer together, no longer speaking? Couldn't we move on and be an idea, a memory, an imprint of a ring? How much would you hate me? I fight for the truth and am rejected. I fight for logic and am shut down. I fight for love, for acceptance, to make things better, and all my efforts are in vain. Surely, it is not too much to brush your teeth every day, regardless of exhaustion. Surely I am not remiss in requesting basic hygiene. If I am so wrong, what makes you so right? And why do you hate me for being right? Am I not allowed the same outrage? Would you prefer a meek lamb, softly bleating and prancing after you, bell ringing merrily as I follow your every footstep, a mindless animal you can consume and discard? Does logic, the truth, mean nothing in this society?
Love?
I don't know if I feel it, or if I suppressed it, or what is supposed to happen to me now. How can I talk to him, how can I open up that I feel no love for him and he is not unique? How can I explain that I don't love my family, friends, husband, or child? I don't have the movie romance, I have a semblance of logical reasons to keep them around, small entries of joy, a yellow highlighter on the calendar of my life, muscle memory of a smile. I crash, I bend, I freeze, I do everything except love. So I am a worthless automaton and what has made me this way? And why is it so horrible, so inconceivable, so monstrous, to allow plain facts to dictate action and reaction? Are the Vulcans so despised? Maybe I just don't get excited... but what can I do to excite myself, much less allow others to inspire that same reaction in me.
I don't get excited anymore. Because I feel no rush of adrenaline when meeting him, no powerful wave, I lack ingredients to make myself emotions. I don't like excitement because it prevents me from controlling myself and surprises are rarely in my favor. I cannot be caught off-guard. How can it be that I have haunted the alleys of my mind for so long without recognizing my own ghost? Where is the justice, the friendly hand, the pounding of blood that apparently makes for such a varied and rich life? Did I lose it, somewhere, when he left? Am I as broken as the sister I pity, ruined by a man, unable to feel excitement? Is this realization going to do anything except depress me?
So many questions... and only Tuesday to figure them out.
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