Jan 2013
"Shala, la, la, la live for today. Don't worry about tomorrow, hey-ey..."*
I'm sitting on the edge of my bed listening to songs that make me miss her. I hear her voice in the words of strangers. I see her face before me, though only thin air rests between myself and my vision of her. Her long black hair, falls over her shoulders like Niagara. Her eyes shine on par with the light of the Sun cranked to maximum. My heart sinks at the same time that it floats. Such an odd feeling. It's like dying and being brought back to life by a mysterious, elegant, beautiful angel who you know can't be of the same species as you. It's dramatic but so is this feeling. She makes me want to write. To record every feeling I have as they wash over me like deep blue waves on a vacant beach at twilight, everything illuminated only by the light of the Moon. She exhilarates me, overwhelms me and takes me over. Holds me captive as if she's cast a Heavenly spell on me to keep me utterly and seemingly permanently in a state of grace. All of this while I just sit here, alone. Just thinking, waiting, wondering, contemplating. And I can't get over the stereotype that I'm supposed to be the "tough" one. I'm supposed to be the one who takes the word "love" and twists it, molds it into something that's insignificant. Something that is only for young girls to swoon over and devastatingly and beautifully infected by. Well, I guess I prove that caveman stereotype wrong. I'm a mess. And it's all because I'm just thinking about her. Running through, in my own head, our next encounter. Each time I see her, I feel like I'm being woken up. Being yanked out of a drab and dim dream only to be pulled into the most amazing vision of content and happiness that I can even comprehend. It's a wonder I can even conceive of such things. And I have her to thank for that. I have her to thank for pulling me from a slow and agonizing every day life that was only inching me closer and closer to another spiritual death. She rescued me, kidnapped me with her cupped hands stretched out toward me. And inside her little hands was my heart, my brain, my lungs, my legs, my arms, my life.
And for some reason... I think I understand why love is so often compared to death. I've fallen in love. And as I did, I died. Only to resurrected again with a brand new body, a brand new heart and brain and perspective. Now, I can't even imagine what would have happened if she hadn't killed me.
I'm sitting on the edge of my bed listening to songs that make me miss her. I hear her voice in the words of strangers. I see her face before me, though only thin air rests between myself and my vision of her. Her long black hair, falls over her shoulders like Niagara. Her eyes shine on par with the light of the Sun cranked to maximum. My heart sinks at the same time that it floats. Such an odd feeling. It's like dying and being brought back to life by a mysterious, elegant, beautiful angel who you know can't be of the same species as you. It's dramatic but so is this feeling. She makes me want to write. To record every feeling I have as they wash over me like deep blue waves on a vacant beach at twilight, everything illuminated only by the light of the Moon. She exhilarates me, overwhelms me and takes me over. Holds me captive as if she's cast a Heavenly spell on me to keep me utterly and seemingly permanently in a state of grace. All of this while I just sit here, alone. Just thinking, waiting, wondering, contemplating. And I can't get over the stereotype that I'm supposed to be the "tough" one. I'm supposed to be the one who takes the word "love" and twists it, molds it into something that's insignificant. Something that is only for young girls to swoon over and devastatingly and beautifully infected by. Well, I guess I prove that caveman stereotype wrong. I'm a mess. And it's all because I'm just thinking about her. Running through, in my own head, our next encounter. Each time I see her, I feel like I'm being woken up. Being yanked out of a drab and dim dream only to be pulled into the most amazing vision of content and happiness that I can even comprehend. It's a wonder I can even conceive of such things. And I have her to thank for that. I have her to thank for pulling me from a slow and agonizing every day life that was only inching me closer and closer to another spiritual death. She rescued me, kidnapped me with her cupped hands stretched out toward me. And inside her little hands was my heart, my brain, my lungs, my legs, my arms, my life.
And for some reason... I think I understand why love is so often compared to death. I've fallen in love. And as I did, I died. Only to resurrected again with a brand new body, a brand new heart and brain and perspective. Now, I can't even imagine what would have happened if she hadn't killed me.
I don't know.
