It’s quite a sight to drive in heavy fog late at night. Streetlights transform the lingering haze into an orange mist. And despite only being able to see a few feet in front of me, I can still see my reflection clear as day.
It’s at that moment, as I cautiously proceed down the deserted highway, that I swear to myself I’ll never become as bitter as those who choose to be.
No matter how much it hurts, I won’t be blind to the wonderful things in front of me.
.tsal reh fo maerd ll’I…treah ym ni reisae hcum os s’tI .tsaf gnidaf tub ,erawanU .taht hsiw I .dniweR .ecnelis railimaF ?uoy era woH .snur-er lliH .tif ’nitteG .esaeler evisserggA .etum no ylimaF .nem kcalb thgie ot xiS .ruoted detarrevO .sucof-eR .serats knalB .eulb gnitteG .snwodtel ot dael syad yggoS .nosrep gnissiM .nur retaW .emitsamtsirhC .dnirg yliaD .ekahsdnah drawkwA .lasoporP .hgih no sdnoces ytxiS .eciffo miD .doowdiM ni somiL .selatyriaF ’sredasurC .ytilibisivnI .noollab eulb aniloraC .evitca si thgin eht epoH .das era syad yggoS .tsrif reh fo knihT
I handed the cashier the toothbrush I intended to purchase. It’s the kind that vibrates and I’m in love with it. I turned my head to the right and I saw a girl.
And about two seconds later I felt thoroughly guilty.
Why? I don’t know. She didn’t notice, and I wasn’t lingering. However, I felt like such a creeper for checking her out from head to toe. I never do things like that. Maybe I’ve heard too many stories from women who are oh so offended at the thought of guys checking them out. There are girls in my life who I could never look in the eyes again if I looked at their bodies, even if they (by some bizarre miracle) were okay with it.
At least after this I’m willing to acknowledge there’s a difference between trying to show respect and being just plain ridiculous. Jeez, I mean how in the world am I supposed to get anywhere if even looking at a girl in “that way” makes me feel awkward?
I look around and see we’re surrounded by white walls. Quiet nights are spent bringing them to life.
We take turns painting our thoughts, but no matter how different, they’re all the same shade. Your joy, your beauty, your sanity…brushed with such detail.
We’ll laugh as we toss our hopes and dreams toward the ceiling, and they splash back onto our faces. Before it dries your finger smudges love on your cheek; peace on mine.
I know we’re searching for relief and truth, but the glimmer in your eyes keeps me from worrying. If ever there was a reason to believe, it’s written all over our faces, and all over these white walls.
I rarely take naps and this is why. I closed my eyes early this afternoon and woke up tonight. My head is fuzzy, and I’m gonna have to force myself to go back to sleep soon or else my weekday schedule will be screwed before it even begins.
Before drifting off to sleep I’m sure I’ll inundate myself with the same old cycle of happy thoughts, mainly scenarios that’ll never happen in real life. I’ll rehearse conversations I won’t have this upcoming week, either because those words cling too close to the heart, or I know the meaning I need to get across will be lost within my stuttering mess of an attempt to socialize.
I already have my clutch phrases: “yeah” and “mmhmm.” In my head they mean something completely different…completely heartfelt. But it’s the thought that counts, I suppose.
The other day I was on the phone listening to various stories from women with one common theme: guys suck.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t believe that suchs douchebags with no form of common sense existed. Still, I sat there and in the back of my mind wondered ”Am I considered a quality guy? Am I even capable of being one someday?”
I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy feeling anxiously awkward and hoping that one day I’ll snap out of it band be as interesting, charismatic and charming as every guy I’ve ever surrounded myself with in my life…maybe I won’t need to be quality if I have those things.
But in my head, quality isn’t the definition given by some girl who thinks her cheating tool of a man is an improvement over her drug dealing ex. Quality isn’t the definition within any female friend’s “you’re a great guy” speech, knowing very well she’d laugh in my face/cut me out of their life if I ever asked her out. Nor is it any definition that might be given by any girl who bases everything according to her ridiculous amount of baggage.
Before the day when someone says “Kary, you’re a quality guy” and means it, I want quality guy to mean someone who understands what it takes to build a meaningful relationship (of any kind). A guy who understands the importance of stability and cherishes honesty. A guy whose actions contain compassion and sincerity, and who lets their patience make sense of everything; becuase I want to see who you are, not who you want to be.
And even when girls my age say they want a quality guy yet their actions scream otherwise, I want to be all those things anyway. I shouldn’t feel ashamed for trying to be something worth waiting for.
Grocery shopping used to be awesome as a kid. Walking down massive aisles of products and daydreaming about the day when mom would buy us Lucky Charms instead of the store-brand Fruit Loops.
Nowadays, it just causes too much anxiety.
I’m all about getting in there, and getting out. I know exactly what I’m looking for, but there’s ALWAYS some jerk standing right in front of what I want, just staring.
“How hard is it? Geez just move along already…”
That’s what I say in my mind, as if it were too difficult to walk up and say “Excuse me,” and simply grab what I need. Then again, I hate feeling like I’ve invaded someone’s personal space even moreso than talking to them, so it’s no-win.
Can I just get my lame frozen dinner and head to the checkout lane in shame please?
I know…those frozen meals and beanie weenies are bad for you, but I don’t cook. What’s the point?
It’s not that I don’t know how to cook, I do; I just don’t feel like spending 30 minutes or more making a meal that only I will be eating. It’d be a completely different story if there was someone else around to cook for, but the motivation for just myself isn’t there.
Leftovers remind me that I’m not good enough yet to make it to that “table for two.” Besides…cold pizza taste like loneliness enough as it is.
Salty leave…
tell me the one about the friend you knew
and the last good night that we toasted too.
I called and called, but I can’t get through,
said he’s on his own, but his own is you
…Stay for me.
Boy meets girl.
Girl goes away.
Girl returns, more damaged than before.
As they lie there, he wonders what lies behind her broken smile.
A shattered heart.
A list of forgotten dreams.
A teary gaze.
A lifeless kiss.
A world he could never comprehend.
Their smiles; if only they could trade.
He doesn’t want to be the hero…he just wants to see her soul shine.
My heart is racing. I can barely breathe. My nerves are hidden in my pocket as trembling hands clinch the inside lining.
Here we are at your front door.
I’m bad at goodbyes, but it’s ok; you do all the talking. I focus on your lips because my eyes are too shy to meet yours. The embrace is warm. I feel your heart beating…you hear mine. My cheek glides across your hair and face until our lips meet somewhere in between.
Please, don’t let go.
The mood stays up as I turn and walk down your driveway. I look down, counting the number of steps from your front door to my car. I pull my hands out of my pockets to find them shaking. I look up and my heart is in a daze.
What just happened?
It was all in my head; memories of something that no longer exists. The rose tint fades from my heart. I can’t believe I was so naive. I’ve been swimming in your words, unaware I was drowning in them.
Hey, are you with me?
We need to feel the same until nothing remains. No more worries about who wins or loses…I can’t stand your face anymore.
I look down and realize my heart never stopped counting; 27 steps to your front door.
The part of my heart that still wants to be in yours won’t fool me this time. It’s too late too fix what’s broken.
27 steps and I’m gone.
