I’m in love with him. I’ve never been in love before. Not real love, anyway.
He’s the kind of person you can’t quite believe exists. And really can’t stop thinking about.
I’ve never met someone so much like myself. I’ve never met someone who really does make me feel like I’m something remarkable— something worthwhile. I’ve never met someone so brave, someone so set on duty and honor. Every time we speak I suddenly am holding tight to the desire to be better than who I am. He protects me, even when I’m not around. He protects my feelings, even when I am thousands of miles away.
I sometimes forget there are such good people still out there in the world. He does a good job of reminding me.
We don’t have to talk about the deep stuff. We’re too busy laughing at the good stuff.
We don’t have to be serious. He lets me joke, and break any tension that arises.
I have never related to anyone like this before. It’s fascinating, terrifying, and a million other things all crushed into a single, beating, heart.
I’m in love.
And the crazy thing is
He says he cares for me too.
I’ve heard it said that God only puts a rug under our feet so that he can snatch it out from under us.
I never thought that was true.
How could it be? We’ve talked for seven hours straight and then some. I’ve never known someone who could do that with me. I’ve never known anyone, anyone, like him.
I’m in love with a soldier. But, like a poorly drawn out character in some cheap Hollywood flick, I can never pursue a relationship with him.
He tells me most things. But doesn’t tell me everything. We both know I don’t want to know everything. And we’re right.
He gets attacked. He loses treasured friends that might as well be brothers. He’s hurt. He’s pushing through. He tells me casually of things that secretly make me cry.
He is too young of a man to be looking over his shoulder as it is penetrated by enemy blades. He is too young to have to call me from the small army hospital on base.
No one should have to be brave like he is. No one should have to be as scared as he pretends he isn’t. No one should be put through loss, and the Hell of combat like he is.
I’m in love with a soldier.
But I can never let it go anywhere.
And that breaks my heart so much I swear I can feel it bleeding like a bullet wound, or cracking like a bunker.
I can feel its violent throbbing every time I find out another person has hurt my soldier, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I can’t let it go anywhere.
I can’t let anything happen.
Because I can’t handle that life.
I can’t handle that inevitable day when I find out, my soldier won’t be laughing and joking with me anymore. When he wont be smiling at me in the middle of a thunderstorm. When the nightmare I scream through every night suddenly comes true. When he can no longer be my rock, with a sensitive side no one else knows about. When I, like so many others, will be left alone— nothing more than a sad story of honor the neighbors will pity.
And I am a horrible person because of that.
I used to be afraid of a lot of things. Everyone is. But I’ve never really noticed how messed up being afraid can make you.
Being afraid means feeling like your heart has its jaw clenched, and brain is darting glances at shadows of furniture.
I have yet to love. Despite what I say to him.
I do not know if being afraid is why I cannot find it within me to love him. But I also do not know if it is the fear of realizing this, that keeps the thought from my head.
There are things I wish I had never done. But there are more things I wish I had had the courage to take by the hand and lead myself.
I used to be afraid.
And that is why I can’t stay.
This is why I can’t stay the way I am.
This is why I’m suddenly jumping. Airplanes may have walked me around new worlds for a time, but right now I have to work on the one I’ve got. And no one can tell me how to do it.
This isn’t some IKEA shelf, this is going to be the life I base everything on.
These are the risks I am going to take, and the fears I am going to step over.
No one can tell me how to do it– how to build it.
These are rules I will be writing on my own.
Living the perfect life is an impossible thing. But what is perfection but the happy thing that is all your own?
I never loved him.
But I didn’t need to.
All I needed was to learn
To start jumping
Into free air.
I’d be a bad person, if I told them that’s what I wanted. And how could I do or be anything other than what they ask of me– or rather, what they tell me.
It seems a tragedy to dissapoint such a captive audience, but once the audience annoys you enough, the scenes start to fade, and all you’ll be left with is a dark theatre with no one around to open the curtain.
Every person in the world is trying to personify those flawless images they see online. We stare at what the world claims are beautiful people every day, and people are sinking into a hatred of themselves every day because of it.
I look at countless people on display with painted smiles touched up just enough to look genuine. I see skinny people in relationships, I see parties and gatherings filled with laughter among others, I see bodies and faces dressed in the most fashionable attire of my day.
I’d never starve myself, and lose myself to get there. I’d never trade my faith for a life I could just work to obtain. But everyone, at one point, stares at images on their screens and wishes to have all that they see there.
But I’d be a bad person if I said that’s what I wanted.
They accuse me of doing things such as shopping carefully, going to the gym, and always doing my hair in the mornings as a sign of dark desires to live up to the standard of the world. They scream at me “You are fine the way you are! Don’t try to change!” They would bash me for being shallow, worldly, self-centered, and insecurely blinded by this smoke and mirror performance.
I know it’s not all real. I see through the unflinching grins, empty eyes, and defensive confidence, all these “perfect” people have.
But I would be a bad person if I said I wanted to be all that, and I wanted the real thing. I would be a bad person if I said I wanted what everyone else has already secretly longed for. What an abomination I would be if I strung my words together to form the sentence: “Yes, that, that is what I want to do, that is what I want to look like. That is what I want to be. And yes, that is what I’m working for.”
I know I’m pretty, but I want to be more than that. No it’s not the most important thing in my life, but it’s on the list.
And I would be a bad person, because I said it out loud.
Have you ever had something so sweet and wonderful happen, you are just amazed it is true? Yet, lost in the confidence of it all, you actually fool yourself into believing it is true?
And sooner than anyone could have expected, the sun begins to dim, and suddenly the world isn’t as it was a moment ago.
The memory is stained forever.
The heart falls into what feels to be disrepair; and it is just you, shamed that you were even happy for that moment.
The object that means the most to me is often one of the many things people simply overlook. Too wound up in the newest and boldest products, if anyone was to obtain this item, it would most likely be used as a paperweight, or would be separated into pieces to sell as scraps. The thing I talk about it the typewriter I keep on my desk (and has stayed there for years.)
It was made in the late 1800’s and sits boldly wherever it is placed. From years of being stored in dust, with nothing but the passing time to keep it company most people are amazed it can still be used, and is used today.
I have been questioned on why I would keep such a thing when I possess a computer in perfect working condition. But to that, I too question. I question them on why I wouldn’t? I love everything about it. I love its scent-reminding me of an old car, cruising through its youthful years when dreams, honor, and integrity were proudly labeled on the flag of your country, and the hearts of your people. It makes me think of that better time when love kept you going, and the people feasted on dreams and the thrill of an idea. It was when opportunity was real, and courage was fluent. It was when values were noble, and the people reflected them likewise.
When you hear the clacking of the keys, you can just feel all that rushing back, just for that brief moment. It’s almost as if you can understand all the work and ideas expressed, not only in that single typewriter, but through the age itself. It was a time when everyone was looking forward, dreaming of another, new, tomorrow, while still relishing in a Today.
Pleasures were greater and more honorable then. The people felt joy in something as simple as a chance- a chance at anything new, a chance to be remembered. That is what it represents to me. It represents a people never taking an invention or idea for granted, and still with a desire to make history. I think it was one of my many favorite times in history, and I love being able to see it, be a part of it, and wonder if some day we can be like that again.
I’m this weird kind of person who has to change their physical surroundings to be able to release the bad memories of the past, and move on to a new future.
At least twice a year I throw out old papers, and move every piece of furniture I can. I suppose most girls do this with clothes. Getting new outfits and such so as to create a better version of themselves, but you need money to do that, therefore, I do not.
This year I removed all hand-written quotes I had stuck up on my bedroom walls, replacing them with paintings, moved my typewriter around, taken all my old CD’s off my shelves and replaced them with my favorite books, and let go a few momentos of a more troubled time in my life.
Though I am aware of how ridiculous this sounds, this alteration feels different. I feel like this year might actually be different. Perhaps even better.
But that may be because this year, not only have I let go of a few objects weighing me down, but for the first time, I’ve let go of a person.
You may have read this in my earlier post “To My Hopeless Person: I’ve Let You Go” (wow that title is dramatic…sorry guys) but I had a sort of childhood friend who did not do exactly right by me.
I wont bore you with the details, for there are far too many than I would like to admit.
But right now I realize I’ve got a clean slate. I’ve never had a clean slate before.
I actually believe I’m free to explore, feel, and experience whole new things in this world that I never have before. I feel like I’m looking at a horizon made solitary just for me. Or that a canvas has been placed before me, and I’ve already begun filling it with colorful brushstrokes all my own.
I’m completely free to begin again, and do whatever I dream to do.
Am I scared?
Perhaps, only because I am so used to having her with me, that such a change may leave me lonely. But I have been scared far too long, I feel like I’ve been scared enough for a lifetime, and am now fresh out of it.
I guess there is nothing else to do but dive in to a new tomorrow, and pray that it may be brighter, kinder, and gentler than the last.