Not Much Wisdom Here, but Hope

I've nothing smart or witty to say; no words to comfort or cheer.
I've rubbish on paper and letters in order, but nothing to amount to something to hold.
It's sentences, poorly structured, running on as if they never learned how to make an end to what they are saying, and besides, if they ended, you'd probably not notice anyway, would you?
I've nothing to add to my wisdom.
Nor have a quote to lift your aching soul. My words will not bring peace to you in such a time as this, really, there is nothing more I can do.
I cannot spill from my lips the meaning you seek nor carve out in stone any truth.
On paper, just paper, I write meaningless things; yet, you're reading them.
If I could make sense of things, perhaps, I'd tell you a road map in words so you would safely navigate to better times. I'd insure a safe journey for you. Yet, that is not how it was meant to be, so here I am, typing, and leaving cluttered thoughts behind.
I've nothing clever, or special, or life altering to add.
Just keep going, and breathing, and living.
Keep hope alive.

Thoughtless Currently

i am staring at a blank page and need to write but nothing comes to me

i'm supposed to be getting ready for bed


There's too many things I want to say and yet the words just can't be said. It's like, if said, then perhaps everything would change.

Fear. Fear of the unknown. Why are we so held down by fear?
Stupidity.
I'm convinced we're all stupid.
Love is stupid.
It makes us stupid.


...dancing around the subjects i wish to dance upon...

this was thoughtless enough.

..........in pain like a nest....

.................................i needed room to breathe.

somewhere, somewhere inside me to escape.

when I finally found it I was able to settle there, like a bird, a bird inside of a nest

   .....................................peacefully.....................................and content

 but, it hurt others, hurt them when I withrdrew and their hurt became my

pain.

I never wanted to cause pain.

I wanted to feel embraced........................alive........

I needed inside to feel connected to who I am living on this planet I feel too disconnected with

....but it caused pain...

....and that pain makes me feel as though I shall wither away

                                          ... and die.

Lookin' Good There

When was the last time you looked in the mirror and said, "Wow, I look good"?
When was the last time you told someone you loved that they're really pretty, or they're the sexiest thing on the planet, or they have the most amazing eyes you will ever be privileged to behold?
I think too many of us have self esteem issues. I have them, too, don't get me wrong. We all do. It's important though to love ourselves. It's important to feel good about ourselves.
I think all women should feel like goddesses from time to time -or everyday - but they should feel wanted, pretty, amazing and most importantly: powerful.
I think guys should feel like sex gods; they should feel strong and capable yet possess a class to quietly carry their confidence - cocky is not cool.
You should be able to wear something pretty, something nice, something that makes you feel good - and for heaven's sakes, wear nice underwear from time to time. It does wonders.
Ever flirt, just to flirt? Try it! Ever compliment a stranger? Try it! I always compliment women with long, pretty hair. Why? Because to keep it that way takes work. It takes a certain love for long hair. If her hair is long, she has it down, and she looks amazing, tell her.
I like to randomly smile at guys. They light up. It's like "she smiled at me" - it's so simple, yet it makes someones day.
The one thing I rarely do is go up to mothers and go "you have the prettiest child in the world". It's kinda' creepy. Particularly if a guy tries it.
Embrace yourselves. Put on lipstick to brighten your day. Add cologne, seriously, a little goes a long way. Don't put white socks on with black pants......just don't.
And try from time to time to look in the mirror and tell yourself how great you look. I know you can't say it every day. But try, at least every few days to do so. And goshdarnit, smile.

Myself is myself is me is I is simply, well, me.

Isn't it funny how we sometimes in order to re-connect with ourselves not only revisit memories, but we revisit old friendships, whether verbally or through memories of those people? We revisit our favorite songs and movies, our favorite books and past-times.
I like to sometimes recall vividly memories though.
I like to let them play out in my head. You see, I have a photographic memory. I recall things in vivid detail, right down to the words said. I think it is the writer in me.
I will recall your voice. Your smell. Your words.  Always, always your laugh. Ever notice that it is easier to remember someone's laugh than their voice? It's joy captured in sound. I always remember your laughter.
I remember often what I was wearing, what you were wearing...sometimes, I recall odd little details. I recall the things I noticed. I often notice odd things.
My past isn't always a pretty thing to recall. There are moments I wish to forget. Yet, there are brilliant times I'll never want erased.
I have for a very long time been the same inside.
I have liked much of the same things for years.
I have been drawn to certain things my whole life.
Trees, doves, harps, redheads, swords, dragons, the ocean, the beach, the stars, the moon, blue eyes, wind, willows, soft things.
I have hated many things my whole life.
Bees, wasps, buzzing, scratching, liars, nasty couches and carpet, evil dogs, mosquitoes, cole slaw, things too hot on my sensitve feet, rough fabrics.
It's funny how things don't change.
At least, inside me.
I've always been the rebel; some say I march to the beat of my own drum. I actually don't march to a drum, it's more of a melody, really. A melody of voices, memories, thoughts and feelings. It's a nice melody. Most days.

~Elizabeth

Awakening

forgetful, unwanted - tiptoe up and down and around and stop when you hear that beating sound; like a masterpeice in your ear, the sound of memories clear, but silly, you let them go; breaking the entry, move here and bury all the rest, and hide the rest - scarred, unwanted - dance bleeding on the ground, spin arpund and hear that sound; like a lullaby in your soul, the emptiness a hole, but darling, let it go.......you can't hold onto it all, you can't keep it all inside, like mountains are bound to collide - break the entry, break the soul, break the speech and the role, hide the rest, unwanted mess and breathe shallow; take the edge off in the words, find the way to heal the hurt and bear alone this curse - frightened, unwanted - die on the pavement in the darkness, the ache is taking over, leave it there and let it falter; to rise the next day, the day of awakening, and come forth new and whole and clean; prayer for the weary, for the weak - be strong, be brave, be great, but all you can be, silly, you can be.....anything.

..............love.

I realize how much some of us hurt for love; we hurt in love, we hurt to have it, hurt to keep it, hurt to bear and hurt to lose it. We hurt while loving and hurt when losing; we hurt before, during and after. We hurt. I realize there is too much pain in this emotion called love. Maybe our fragile bodies, shallow hearts and weak minds were never meant to feel so godlike an emotion. Maybe we were never supposed to understand the depths of love. To love someone so much that you would let them love another and silently die a little more each day in your agony and your loss for no one will compare to them or to their beauty or to the purity of their soul. That love was never meant for us mortals. To love completely, unerringly, relentlessly and never receive. To be choked by heart ache and drowned in grief. That love was not meant for us here below. Surely, it was meant for immortal beings whose time frame to heal is far vaster than ours.

....i want to assume that i know what i need...

there's a place in-between "i know" and "i assume".
it's a fine line.
a gentle string.
and some days i am holding the string in my hands and it nearly breaks.
there's a place in-between "i want" and "i need".
it's a blurred line.
a confusing thing.
and some days i assume what i want is what i need but i don't know.
you see this pattern i am caught in makes it hard for me to know without assuming and need without wanting.
when i get there, if i get there, i will tell you all that i know of what i need.
until then, you must hear me assume what i want.
my apologies.

Why Did Pandora Open the Box?

There are days I am unable to keep my hands off the box. Days I cannot even contain my wanting, my restless fingers, my itching palms.
I feel feverish when I stare at it.
That box.



There are days when I hear what's inside. I want to know what they are saying. Just a bit. Just a listen.
I think, I think they talk about you.
About me.
About Us.



There are days when the silence makes me worry and I want to peek inside to see if they left or if they decided silence was best.
The lid isn't locked.
I want to open it.



Today, they mentioned something of death. What if they spoke of you? What if they wish to kill you? I know I was told not to open the box, but what if they are plotting?
Can't I ask?
Please?




I think....I think I might have to check. There was laughter. And your name....................

OCD?

I watched a show tonight about someone with OCD, and it of course got me thinking. I mean, I am pretty sure I do have it - not sure how bad - but it’s there.
From an early age I had to do things a certain way and collected things in large amounts: Dalmatians, tuxedo cats, Sylvester, penguins, Sailor Moon, and now black faced sheep.
I organized things obsessively. My drawings were broken down to the completed, the needing to be completed, the ones to do over, and so on. The songs and poems and short stories were the same. Story notes were organized. I saved all the notes I would take in church. All the talks. The lessons. I filed them with folders and labels. Put the files in an order that pleased me.
I get on kicks for a time: I scrapbook, I cut clippings from magazines, I read, I research some topic, I write, I exercise, I organize, I clean, I memorize - - something. I do something obsessively for a time, and then, I move on to a new thing.
I suppose, walking into my room, it looks like controlled chaos. It is. My room has a certain “theme” and items are grouped together in a complimentary way. Pictures balance each other. In between, I toss clothes in a chair, leave papers in stacks, and over fill my bookshelves, so that it resembles a cluttered mess in my room. But things are the way I want them.
I hate disorganized kitchens. I fret over them.
Bees. They buzz. If I hear it, that’s all I hear, and I can’t tune it out. If it’s in the room, I won’t focus on much of anything else until it’s gone.
I febreez things obsessively after I clean.
If I had big enough bookshelves I would have my books alphabetized.
I used to put all thumb tacks into one little jar, and only that jar. Safety pins go in a little fancy pill box. I save buttons from items of clothing in case I need them. I save tags, too, sometimes. I save movie ticket stubs. Concert tickets, too. I saved the confetti from all the Enrique Iglesias concerts I attended. I also collected stuff about him and saved magazine clippings of him.
Before I turn off the car everything must be shut off, i.e. radio, air conditioner, windshield wipers, etc.
My earrings each have a special spot in the jewelry box. My hats are in boxes by color or texture or season.
Speaking of seasons, I obsessively wear seasonal clothing, eat seasonal food, smell seasonal smells and listen to seasonal music. No Christmas music or green velvet any other month, except December. Black and orange is for October. White sundresses for Spring and Summer. Brown summer skirts for late summer. I can’t do it another way, that’s how I have always done things. I think partly why my memory is good, is because I remember things by seasons, which in turn helps me remember them by months.
With all this obsessing you would think I obsess over body images. I don’t. I rather like my body, aside from the poor eyesight and scarring, and my hip, over all, I don’t worry or fret over it the way one might assume. Nor, do I obsess over other people’s. Take guys for instance: he could be insanely gorgeous and I won’t notice, but if he is interesting, I see him for what he is.
If I actually find a guy attractive AND like him for being interesting it’s a rare thing.
The people close to me are people I listen to. In other words, when they talk, I’m not actually thinking of three other things. I often think of all sorts of things during conversations. My brain is in all sorts of places. If I recall the conversation, it means I gave it my full attention, and I’ll probably remember a lot of it.
I can't wash dishes in the same dirty soapy water, each dish must be washed separately and rinsed separately.
I obsessively fluff my pillows, smooth my sheets, and do the same nightly routine before bed. I do the same routine each morning. I race the clock to arrive on time each day.
People. Back to people. I obsess over people from time to time. Not in a creepy way. I worry. I worry so much that I think about how to help them constantly. Worse, is that usually once I do this, I can’t undo it, so it’s there in the back of my mind. I have a list of people. People I want to help.
Once I get an idea in my head, I have to try. I can’t let things go. Sometimes I hold grudges. I notice random things all over the place normal people wouldn’t. My writing might be obsessive, my listening to certain songs constantly could be, my diets, my food kicks, my fact collecting, all of these things I have mentioned could be a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Or I’m crazy.
I know 18 species of penguins. I am full of random sexual facts. Health facts. History facts.
I collect tree species in my head. I name them every time I see them. One day, I will learn all the constellations, flowers, herbs, poisonous plants, and insect names.
I’ll learn many languages. I’ll collect antiques. I want lots of rugs and pillows. One day, I’ll fill a house with art, fabrics, and things I collect while traveling.