Monday, July 6, 2009

I need to write

I cannot sleep and therefore I must write, I suppose. It happens, on occasion, where all I can do is write. I know not why, or how or when it will happen. Just that, inevitably, I will have a need and who ever is in my wake will be bid to read what wondrous or mundane work I have created. Is it out of boredom alone? I don't think so, I think it is... out of necessity. I am what I am and all that I am is me. Perplex simplicities wrapped in what warmth and shelter I can take from this world. Sometimes it is much, and I am grateful. Other times, it is less than would be desired and I feel abandoned and alone. There is no switch of emotion. There is no only on or off. There are varying degrees of everything from anger to love. I love nearly everyone alive, I suppose. However, there are some I love only because they are alive and there is a soul and meaning behind their eyes; others I love because they have qualities and traits which I admire. There are those who have admirable qualities and a common ground with myself, and I love those as acquaintances and perhaps friends if enough of the right mixture is there. There are those which are simply a part of me, have been and will be and they are family, although no blood relation is necessary at all. There is love which is deep and coursing just like blood in my veins, and consuming and undeniable – like the love of family, but with a necessity and craving aspect. Within each of these categories there are varying levels. There is no on or off. You may never hear me tell you that I love you, but I do. You may beg with me and plead with me that you love me, and though I feel the same way you'll never hear me utter the words. I believe with all that I am, that you shouldn't tell someone you love them to hear a response. If you love someone and wish to let it be known, you shouldn't feel downhearted if they do not repeat the words to you. If you would feel this way – then let you never utter those words of feeling aloud. I also believe that “I love you” is said far too much. We've raped the meaning from it. It means the same as 'I like you' or, 'I think you're an awesome person.' I am just as guilty of this as the next. With all of this knowledge I hold to be nothing but the truth, it will continually befuddle and confuse me as why telling someone you love them is such an enormous deal. Why you would be willing to rid yourself of someone you love in what you claim is the deepest sense to tell someone you love as a friend – acquaintance these days – that you love them. To me, it means much more to simply be alive, to care as you will. I would not need you to tell me you love me to know that you do. Actions will always, always speak louder than words could ever hope to. It is what you do, how you treat someone that let's them know how you feel about them, not the words you speak – type – send. It is sad to me that we have come to rely on words when so very much of what we experience can not be understood with any language that I have ever encountered. I say this as someone who is more tied to words than most. I will always be a writer. Even when what I wrote was fairly pointless, silly, and without talent I considered myself as such. I feel that without writing I would surely go insane. Yet even I can admit that we place too much merit on what is said with letters smashed together in semblance of intelligent thought. As I sit here, in darkness of night and somber thoughts I wish that there was a way to download how I feel into a disk uploadable to your mind. Maybe then you would realize that by not responding you are not lying. You are choosing to love me like you say you do. I didn't start writing this to go there. I didn't even mean to, it just kind of happened as my consciousness spilled forth from my fingertips. I still feel like I am right, he is wrong, and there is nothing I can do. My dreams are consumed of him choosing her over and again. On our wedding day, random events, it doesn't matter. He always goes to her, even if he tries to come back to me later on, it doesn't do any good. He's made his choice. I guess that's it, isn't it? He did, and my subconscious doesn't want to let me forget it....

No comments:

Post a Comment