I told you I loved you once
And the truth is
I lied.
Just that one time though,
It's not personal,
I justified it with not hurting
Your feelings.
You have them right?
It was easier to spare you
Then
Tell the truth later,
Once you were out
Of my way.
Sometimes saying love is so hard,
Hard on the feelings
You know?
So it's been like, what, some years?
I better tell you.
Statistics show that truth-tellers are happier -
Have nice homes, children, and corporate offices.
I was never good at math.
1+1=1
But I slanted things once
And wanted you to know.
It's not for you - it never really was.
But you -
No hard feelings.
Peace.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Old Salt
A bulky brown 8.5/11 package lay innocently in the mailbox. Only her address scrawled on the flattest side indicated that it may be intended for her.
What was with the mail lately anyway?!
The package showed no obvious signs of postage. This was startling. It suggested a late night drive-by dropping, the person aware of where she lived, which mailbox belonged to her.
Her name was not on the mail box.
And her name was not on the package.
At least, she couldn't see it.
She gripped the package and headed inside, dropping her work bag at her side.
What the hell was this?
Images of mailbox bombs and suspicious correspondence filled her mind.
"That's crazy," she muttered.
This was nothing. This was small town America.
If someone wanted to drop mail personally for her, then fine. So be it.
At least it wasn't a court summons.
She poured a glass of Malbec, perhaps a little too early, sipped it, and proceeded to open the brown package.
As she tore the seal, and stared, shocked, at the crisp white pages that lay maliciously on the counter.
A yellow Post-It was on the top page.
"My Thesis" was all it read.
She gulped and set her glass down.
A notation on the page indicated publication.
Her stomach heaved.
He was published.
And the contents lay before her, having already been seen by the world.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tangent #16: Fear
Fear =
Waking up one morning only to discover that again, this was only a dream.
Just a dream.
"A dream, a dream is all this can be."
(Halogen Moon)
Tangent #15: Old Wounds
After awhile, one gets used to the scrape.
After awhile, it's only your brain that tells you to hurt.
Just a little.
Just for a little while.
It's just for show.
Old wounds heal quickly.
On the surface.
And isn't that what matters?
Old wounds can heal quickly.
When it matters.
Love doesn't hurt,
But failure does.
Tangent #14: Coffee
It was a crisp morning. The sky was just waking up and he had gotten out of bed way too early. As he moved out of bed, he saw her breathing, the blanket moving up and down as she snored. No sense in waking her. Her day didn't start for hours.
He padded downstairs, passing the living room to the kitchen. He pushed the button on the coffee maker. He'd set it up the night before. He waited, then grabbed a mug from the shelf. He poured a strong cup and walked to the back porch where he could enjoy the brew and the sunrise.
Somewhere, he could hear a school bus door closing and a police siren.
Somewhere, she was getting his note card. He had been stupid to send it. She would be stupid to open it. He knew she'd never reply or even try to find him.
But he had needed closure. He needed a reason to not think about her at all anymore.
He didn't love her, not at all, but he couldn't stand the thought of her not loving him. It hurt.
Frowning, he took a sip of coffee and stared into the yard. The car would need an oil change soon. The grass would have to be mowed due to the unprecedented warm weather. The box in the back of the garage would have to be destroyed...soon. He gazed at the garage, making a mental note of the box's place in the back. It was buried under bikes, bags, other boxes, books, and other pieces of his past that made little sense to him now.
His wife didn't know he kept it when they moved in together. It held his journal, among other things, and he'd be humiliated if she found it. And yet, he couldn't figure out why he'd be ashamed. She was his wife, after all. Love unconditional...and all that.
He crossed his legs and took another sip. The last year went by so fast. In no time, he'd be one step closer to adulthood.
He had a good life.
He had a life.
He had the life he often dreamed about when he was little.
He finished the coffee and stood, looking out toward the sun.
Soon, he'd be at work.
It's about surviving, he thought. It can't be about what I want anymore.
He padded downstairs, passing the living room to the kitchen. He pushed the button on the coffee maker. He'd set it up the night before. He waited, then grabbed a mug from the shelf. He poured a strong cup and walked to the back porch where he could enjoy the brew and the sunrise.
Somewhere, he could hear a school bus door closing and a police siren.
Somewhere, she was getting his note card. He had been stupid to send it. She would be stupid to open it. He knew she'd never reply or even try to find him.
But he had needed closure. He needed a reason to not think about her at all anymore.
He didn't love her, not at all, but he couldn't stand the thought of her not loving him. It hurt.
Frowning, he took a sip of coffee and stared into the yard. The car would need an oil change soon. The grass would have to be mowed due to the unprecedented warm weather. The box in the back of the garage would have to be destroyed...soon. He gazed at the garage, making a mental note of the box's place in the back. It was buried under bikes, bags, other boxes, books, and other pieces of his past that made little sense to him now.
His wife didn't know he kept it when they moved in together. It held his journal, among other things, and he'd be humiliated if she found it. And yet, he couldn't figure out why he'd be ashamed. She was his wife, after all. Love unconditional...and all that.
He crossed his legs and took another sip. The last year went by so fast. In no time, he'd be one step closer to adulthood.
He had a good life.
He had a life.
He had the life he often dreamed about when he was little.
He finished the coffee and stood, looking out toward the sun.
Soon, he'd be at work.
It's about surviving, he thought. It can't be about what I want anymore.
Tangent #13: It Always Feels the Same, Only Different
The mail wasn't going to sort itself. Eventually the mailbox was going to explode from the pressure. She had to go pick it up.
The mail didn't sort itself. She hefted a clumsy pile of letters, magazines, bills, and unwanted solicitations to the counter. Dropped them. They fell like weighted leaves, spiraling down in a little tornado. She smirked to herself. This was the mail carrier's 'Fuck You,' a refusal to stack the mail in an orderly, pyramid fashion.
Bills.
Magazines.
Unwanted ads.
Invitations to weddings, baby showers, wedding showers...
Bills.
Unwanted mail addressed to "Resident."
As she sifted through the heap of paper, she came across a small note that had swirled down to the kitchen floor and pasted itself against the refrigerator. It had only her name on it.
She opened the envelope and found a small index card inside. It read only the following lines.
I decided not to wait and figure this thing out.
I got married.
I'm going to be happy.
Hope you are too.
Only one person could have sent that card. It felt just like it does every other time. Only different. Like her morning coffee, same brew, different day.
As she gripped the card, she trembled slightly, felt the lump rise in her throat. It always made her well up a little when this happened. Her mind roll-a-dexed back through memories and then flipped forward again. No sense even thinking anymore.
No sense in feeling anymore.
She placed her mind on autopilot.
Instead of thinking, she went to the patio, sat down, and lit a cigarette. She toyed with the lighter, then crumpled the card and lit the end. It flamed, sputtered, and she dropped it on the cold ground, smashing it with the toe of her boot.
It was ash.
He was an ash.
Same ceremony. Different day.
The mail didn't sort itself. She hefted a clumsy pile of letters, magazines, bills, and unwanted solicitations to the counter. Dropped them. They fell like weighted leaves, spiraling down in a little tornado. She smirked to herself. This was the mail carrier's 'Fuck You,' a refusal to stack the mail in an orderly, pyramid fashion.
Bills.
Magazines.
Unwanted ads.
Invitations to weddings, baby showers, wedding showers...
Bills.
Unwanted mail addressed to "Resident."
As she sifted through the heap of paper, she came across a small note that had swirled down to the kitchen floor and pasted itself against the refrigerator. It had only her name on it.
She opened the envelope and found a small index card inside. It read only the following lines.
I decided not to wait and figure this thing out.
I got married.
I'm going to be happy.
Hope you are too.
Only one person could have sent that card. It felt just like it does every other time. Only different. Like her morning coffee, same brew, different day.
As she gripped the card, she trembled slightly, felt the lump rise in her throat. It always made her well up a little when this happened. Her mind roll-a-dexed back through memories and then flipped forward again. No sense even thinking anymore.
No sense in feeling anymore.
She placed her mind on autopilot.
Instead of thinking, she went to the patio, sat down, and lit a cigarette. She toyed with the lighter, then crumpled the card and lit the end. It flamed, sputtered, and she dropped it on the cold ground, smashing it with the toe of her boot.
It was ash.
He was an ash.
Same ceremony. Different day.
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