just a little reminder is just enough
I used to measure my value from the weight of the words that came from others mouths. When I didn’t like what they would say I became mean and bitter, then I would do the same to someone else. I would say mean and bitter things. I would say them to whichever guy I was dating if they bothered me with something. I wouldn’t do it to my family or friends, just the guy I was dating. I’m unsure why I thought it was okay–it’s not okay to talk meanly to people. It made me feel better when I did it. I wanted to be the person that said EXACTLY what she thought and felt because I kept my mouth shut for such a long time. I’d say what should’ve been said, or I’d say things as politically-correct or as rule-following as I could. In order to keep the waters calm and appease everyone. And the ones I didn’t use this…philosophy…on, were the guys I dated that eventually got on my nerves or became bad guys, or annoying guys, or clingy or said they loved me–and it had been a whole month. Part of my don’t-hold-anything-back motto was to force myself to be more honest, and to call others out on their bullshit. It’s hard when they say something back. It’s always hard to hear someone say something mean about me, to me. I want to hear what they think, I wouldn’t want someone to talk shit about me behind my back, I prefer it to my face. Doesn’t make it any easier, though. Makes me a little bitter…so that I want to say something back in defense. I also makes me look at life a bit more realistically. As people…oooo I should be careful with finishing that sentence..too general of a grouping…hmmm…
People can be mean. I can be mean. Sometimes it makes me feel better. Sometimes it makes me feel crappy. And when I’m faced with the mean coming at me I have to remind myself of the realness of who I am, where I am and how real the other person is that’s delivering their words. Even if it’s not mean, it’s just honest…I have to allow the words to land and mean exactly what they are intended to be. Sometimes the intention isn’t heard, especially with our emails and texts. Sometimes the tone of the message is unclear. Sometimes, it’s crystal clear. Sometimes something like this::: “maybe you’re right. perhaps I just didn’t want to see you enough” is exactly what it says. And more importantly, it’s okay. I’ve been on both sides of that, and I just need to remind myself of that sometimes.
If you want to change the relationship, change the space
I’m coming up on my four year anniversary of living in New York City. It is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere, other than my parents house growing up. My anniversary approaches just days after I celebrate a birthday. The kind of birthday where you sit back and think about where you are, how you got here, how you are, and even Who you are.
The kind of responsibility that comes with age and experience, when you are not responsible for someone else (like children) nor do you share any responsibility (like a spouse, or partner), seems to be the same kind of responsibility when you first move out of your parents house. I think I’m trying to say “I don’t feel old.” But then in a statement like that it could come across as having a spouse and/or children would indicate one IS old. And that’s not what I mean. I mean the responsibility part. I am selfish, I can tell you that. I don’t want to share responsibility or have responsibility for anyone else, right now. I may not ever, but that is something I can’t say with absolution. I don’t like to share my food, I don’t want to share my room with anyone. I don’t want someone else’s things in my space. I don’t want to come home and cook for someone or change diapers. I like being alone. I am okay with being alone. This, is new. Fairly new, that is:
I think I suffered from some kind of co-dependancy for a while. Seeking validation from people. More specifically, from the man in my life at any given time. It was more like I wanted to be wanted. I allowed myself to think worth was something I had that had to be weighed, or measured by him–whoever I was dating at the time. That’s something else that’s different. The word “dating.” That definition is different at my now-age, than when I was in my early and mid twenties. In the event I bother with such an outing I take it very lightly, or very seriously. Nothing in between. I have either made a decision prior to the outing that nothing will come of it, or I approach it with an intention to really see if we can become something more. The problem with the latter, is it’s a rarity. Because I have also learned what I will accept and not accept. I’m very picky, which doesn’t leave much room for discovery, or compromise. I have a certain kind of image that comes to mind when I picture a partner-in-crime, if you will. Because of that image, I am rarely open to an outing with intent for something more.
I still like dark chocolate better than milk chocolate. I doubt this will ever change.
I work, hard. The difference is I enjoy my work, and I enjoy where I work. That kind of stress-less atmosphere and peace has been a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. So much so, that I no longer take antidepressants. I no longer ponder, with great depth, any available reason or resource to get me out of work. The anxiety and stress work used to cause me had a physical harshness that would actually make me sick sometimes. Sick to my stomach. Sweaty, sleepless nights. Terrible headaches. Combined, they became forces that hurt me mentally, physically, and emotionally. It is a freeing feeling to take joy in my schedule at work, the people with whom I work, the clients I work on and with. It is hard work. It is work I enjoy. It is work I am good at. I am appreciated, and acknowledged. I am requested. People call, and choose me to be their technician for their needs. It is humbling, even. And every night, after I am finished with my final client, I walk out to the lobby and set my eyes angled above the manager at the desk and I take a bow. She plays along, every night, and cheers and claps. Each bow feels different, each night is different. Each time, she plays along, and I smile and am reminded again and again, I love my work, and I love where I work.
But…I take a bow? Yes, really. As if there was an audience out there. Or even all of my clients out there. I often refer to my interviewing at my boutique spa as my audition for the role of esthetician. With every role, there are performances, after performances we take our bows. Thanking those who came to see us, so that we can be paid, feed ourselves, clothe ourselves, pay our bills. I bow. I thank them.
I am still learning. I’m currently enrolled in Massage Therapy Education classes so that I can further my career in the spa industry. Still in a helpful manner, hopefully. A knowledgeable field. An important field, in my opinion. Massage is no longer just a luxury. It is a kind of therapy that has helped all kinds of people with all kinds of issues with their body. It is fascinating to learn about the body and how it moves, and how the pieces connect, and and and and and…There will always be more to learn in this field, and I like that. I don’t think I’d be able to do something that was finite. Something that stopped evolving. Something that had an end. I am someone who needs to constantly be learning, something.
I gave up on pieces of me a few years ago. I tend to use words like “put that part of me away” or “I lost the drive and motivation, so I let it go” but I think the true statement is “I gave up on pieces of me.” And that is very hard to realize. It is, I think, even more difficult to say. I didn’t think that’s what I had done. I thought I had made a choice. I thought my chance or time in the world of performing arts had finally come to an end. It was not long-lived compared to some, but long-enough to many. I had made a decision that I wasn’t good enough, or fit enough. I was too tall, to0 curvy or muscular, too loud…I made the decision that I was not what anyone was looking for, and I didn’t have what it took to change someones mind. I gave up because I was too afraid to take risks. Failure no longer motivated me to change, it became a luxury I couldn’t afford. It is so much easier to not follow your heart. It hurts like hell though. Like a really hard breakup, the kind where a piece of you dies with the relationship. It is so much easier…to not follow…your heart. And so I stopped. And I allowed the other passions to grow and form. And I got good at things I was passionate about, like work.
Back to work, huh? Aren’t you passionate about something else?
No, school and work is my life now. Or maybe I could say they are my life “right now.” not forever, but for-now. And part of the responsibility that comes with accepting this kind of decision is not allowing yourself to get carried away if it starts to hurt again. It takes discipline.
Which I have none of, I think. I used to have discipline. As if it could be something you owned or borrowed. Rather, I used to be disciplined. Or is that even correct? In order to be disciplined, or act accordingly…I need something to be important. I guess, importance is subjective as discipline is relative. And that just makes me think I must not have anything in my life I find all that important. (sits back and ponders).
There is a song called “Wondering” from the new broadway musical Bridges of Madison County and it makes my heart pump with joy and ache with pain at the same time. Anybody want to try to explain that one? I think it’s a combination of the music and lyrics and the guy singing and the story being told that wraps me up so fast its more like spinning into a web and I am…lost. Or perhaps, rather, I have escaped. It simultaneously makes me:: want to be in love in a movie, and be in rehearsals, and be dancing and singing, and sleeping cozied up next to someone, and laughing, and crying. It takes my breath away and reminds me to breathe at the same time. It lights me up from the inside out, and it starts in my gut and extends sometimes slowly like a creeping fog, or it explodes like lightning and it goes out and out towards the end of my fingertips and toes and I feel it force itself up through my lungs even though I try to suppress it, and it bursts through my lungs breaking my ribs and finds my heart and grabs ahold and squeezes. And at the same time as soon as it squeezes from the outside in, I can feel it pushing it’s way out of the middle of my heart as well as though it had been living there as small as the head of a pin. It is painful, and joyful at the same time.
And then the song is over and I am myself again, on my couch, or on the train or anywhere other than–there. And it’s like losing something you didn’t even have. And it’s confusing, and hard, and beautiful, and it echoes. It radiates and then I remind myself of where I am, how I got here, the choices I made and that that piece of me isn’t allowed out and then I say WHY??? I infuriate myself. I struggle, just like everyone else does with decisions–don’t I? Don’t you? I want to be relatable, normal–whatever that means. I want to be someone people look to for truth, for stories, for escape, for reality, for hope, for inspiration… I want to make people FEEL. And by putting the actor/performer in me “away” for X amount of time I have done a disservice to who I used to be, and really who I am. I am doing a disservice to the people that believe in me and encourage me. I have dismissed their urges and nudges so that I can have my hourly plus tips and commission job that I love and am committed to. So that I can have the roof over my head, the food, the clothes, the electronics, the trips, the new leather jacket. The things…the things that cost money. I have done a disservice to my heart and soul, for the security of a paycheck. Damn that sounds bad–but it shouldn’t be, because I do enjoy my job, it’s just…my third or fourth passion, not my first or second.
I want to make the right decisions.
Don’t we all?
I miss who I was, now that I am who I am. I don’t want that to be a poor pitiful me thing. I don’t want it to be a fishing for a compliment thing. I just want…it all. I want it all. And that places me in a lot of statistics. That statement makes me a percentage, so I guess regardless of any of what I want or don’t want, what I have or don’t have, I still have to just…make a decision.
And then I think, I’m too old. I can’t move like that anymore. I can’t sing like that anymore. But I also think, the experiences I’ve had in my life make me a better actor. And …I think I need to let that part of me out again. It’s been hovering. I get flecks and flashes and moments of pursuing here and there, but as recently as today while writing this I have realized I’m not as happy as I thought I was.
I’m not unhappy, though.
I just…miss…it.
Missing something isn’t enough anymore. I am unclear on my intentions, I am unable to specify what I want but I can tell you this. For the first time in years, as I keep saying to myself, “Put it away, you’re done. It’s done. You’re not good enough. you’re not thin enough or fit enough. you’re not talented enough. You’re too old, you’re too fat, to bulky, to this…to that…” ::something else is responding…
what if the opposite were true?
It would now appear, I am someone who asks questions instead of assuming answers.
And that is not what I expected to come out tonight.
To Be Determined, Chapter Five: Normalcy
So there I was, heading to the DMV in Manhattan, Herald Square. I step off the train and go to the corner its by (its a new place and there is construction everywhere so I’m standing there sort of looking around a little lost and searching. I’m turning in my CA drivers license for a NY one. I know, I know. Crazy. It’s almost like giving up my identity…see how I did that? I mean, I’ve had a CA license since I was 16–that’s almost twenty years ago by now. I’m sort of attached to it, even though it’s been renewed a few times over the years, the picture gets retaken, now it says I wear glasses or corrective lenses, and the weight I admit to being fluxuates with a “give-or-take 25 pounds. Shut up. SO, My headphones are in, my hair and make up is “done” after all it’s picture day. I have on my new lipgloss (Mary Kay’s Fancy Nancy, love it). I’m in jeans dressed with a coat, it’s wintery there’s gloves. Etc. You get the picture. So I’m standing there a little lost and a guy approaches me, he clearly work for the Empire State Building selling tickets and the like and I immediately think he’s a kind guy willing to give me directions, so I take the headphones out of my ears. He is youngish, bright blue eyes and just says “excuse me, are you single, married, or in love?” I’m so thrown off that I just answer it: “single.” He then goes to tell me how beautiful I am. That he’s sorry to approach me, he wasn’t trying to scare me, but how could he not with how I look. –I’m still caught off guard and just say “ok.” He then asks “why are you single.” And I’m instantly That Girl. Reminds me of a book I read once called How To Be Single. This exact question is addressed. I laugh off his question and it isn’t until later I think of saying something like “haven’t found the right guy.” But that’s cheesy, probably often said, and again I didn’t think of it until later. Much later. And this guy asks if I live in NY–yes. Then he asks if he can have my phone number. He’s like to talk to me more but he’s working, clearly I am heading somewhere and he doesn’t want to risk not ever seeing me again. I find that flattering, and agree. Still a bit confused as to what just happened. And there I am giving out my phone number to a stranger I met organically on the streets of Manhattan.
–Now, this story would’ve continued to be great had the following not happened: a few hours later, after my three hour tour to the DMV , I’m in class then I’m out of class a couple hours later. By this time I have a question from him, something like what is my nationality. So I answer the best I can, as I usually answer. Then he asks the kind of guy I normally date. I don’t know what he means. Turns out he wants to know what race of men I’ve dated. I hesitate and then just say something along the lines of although all kinds of men can be attractive, I am not necessarily attracted to them. I typically go for the white guy with light eyes. (But we all know I’ve dated outside of this “type”). He then says “I’m just curious” if I’ve ever dated a black guy. –I have no idea where this is going but I’m sure I won’t like it. I hesitate again, then text this:
Why are you curious about this? Is this the normal now? Guy walks up to a girl says she’s pretty gets her number then asks about her dating history? Sigh. smh. yes–I have.
To which this guy–Charles, is his name– writes “something like that lol jk. oh nice…interracial is so hot and kinky, how was the sex?”
My response: Alright. We’re done now. Thanks for the compliment earlier. You can move on.
Then they guy simply responds, seemingly surprised at *my* reaction with, “Wow, I was just wondering.
::::
Now–Why is this okay? Why is THIS the normal? Or is it? I really hope it’s not. I’d like to think this was just a special inappropriate moment hand made just for me so I could roll my eyes at yet another man disappointing me. And how is it that *I* deserve the response of “wow.” ??? You know what, guy–I’m single because garbage comes out of the mouths of guys like you, who appear “normal.” It’s none of your business. You spoke with me for all of five minutes. Is this the kind of behavior and conversations we’re heading towards now? Have we already been here for awhile and I just missed it? And more importantly, what steps can I take to insure this won’t happen again. I just can’t be bothered. I may not necessarily *need* to be courted, but the etiquette in courting is lost. Just…lost. And it’s a shame. Because this guy has either done this before–and it works, which is what awarded *me* the “wow” or he is just that balls-out-natalie, in which case perhaps he’s learned a lesson. I have no idea. What I know, is where I come from, you don’t talk to me like that. Is it super offensive? no. The content is not, but the…I don’t know…the nerve? of this guy? It’s just stupid.
Cambridge online dictionary tells me the definition of Normal: ordinary or usual, as would be expected.
At the moment he asked me that I felt my space was invaded. It felt like my life, my past was being invaded. It’s not an appropriate topic with someone I’ve just met. It’s not approached in what I would deem an appropriate way to be approached. And for a brief moment I thought about the kind of person that asks these questions. I thought about what could possibly be going through their mind that it’s okay? And for a moment I was trapped between trying to figure him out and standing up for myself. He wasn’t necessarily attacking me, but…for me he was inappropriate. Then my mind wandered beyond my brief encounter to why I chose the word “trapped.” Why had it become necessary for me to figure it all out instead of just moving on. And (this all happened in seconds by the way, he didn’t take up too much of my time or my life hahah), then I thought: If this was four years ago I would’ve answered him point blank without a care. Because I didn’t care. Because four years ago I was trapped in a different kind of cycle where a question out of the blue like that would’ve been a fast change from my current Level of Normalcy. And at that time it may have been a great escape. And as my life progressed, as life happened to me without my control or opinion, I had decided that THAT…wasn’t normal. Or, it was My Normal and I didn’t like it.
Two years ago, I was trapped. Trapped in a job I hated, in a relationship that hurt my heart. and others? They are Trapped out on the streets. Trapped inside the room, the hospital room, the bedroom, the cubicle. Trapped as a parent, Trapped as a child, as a teenager. Trapped in the constant sequential battle that is your schedule regardless if you say you like your job and your classes, you have no social life. If you like everything that’s going on–are you trapped in an untouchable place where the rest of us just think you’re lying anyway because no one could be THAT happy with their life. No one is just Passionately Content. Or–are they? And if that’s their normal, who am I to judge? I mean, those celebrities splashing thousands, hundreds of thousands, thousands of millions, on their Life and most of us claim poverty level for net income during tax season, am i right? but THAT IS their normal. Who am I to say that the celebrity life is any less normal, than mine, or that mine is any less normal than say a homeless person?
It’s because the day-in-and-day-out, seems to be, what classifies us into our levels of “normalcy.” And we can spend time and money trying to change that, or define it otherwise, or wish otherwise, or judge otherwise, but the truth is My Normal is to sleep in my bed alone at night with a sheet and three blankets with the window cracked open and the heater on. (Shut up, balancing heat in a NY apartment is difficult). And to some people their normal, their Truth is that they sleep in a borrowed bunk bed rooming with a stranger and neither may know how they got there, or how they’ll get out. Their truth is tomorrow may be better, could be the same, could be worse. But–isn’t that true for all of us? No? Well, I suppose money has an ENORMOUS way of weighing into our lives. there is the Truth that there are some out there who get on private planes often, they get dressed up in a costume with make up and they tell someone else’s story, someone else’s truth–and they get paid for it. While some of us save for a plane trip home so we don’t have to get dressed up or pretend to be someone else (like that professional version of you at work), and we bask in the simplicity of honoring the truth of just being tired of putting on that show day in and day out.
There are truths. There are beliefs. There are faiths. There are faults. There are ups and downs
And who am I to sit next to someone and ask their story and think for a moment I’m doing THEM a favor, when its me doing myself a favor and reminding myself that we’re just human. We’re just people. Celebrities (as my mom has always said) are just…people. They live their life, we live ours.
Then…why is it, that I get so caught up in searching for a normal feeling? Why am I unable to actually describe or define it. Was that guy coming up to me on the corner and paying me a compliment a normal day for me? No, not really. Is it normal to order the same coffee at the same coffee house on the way to my job? Sure. Well WHY do I feel *more* normal if I’m NOT doing those things??
I think it’s human interaction that reminds us…well…me of what normal is. The act of walking over to the coffee house is out of habit, it’s become part of my day-in-day-out professional version of myself. But the exchange of greeting and speaking to another human reminds me I’m normal. I think. And I think when those moments start to become habitual, is when I seek out a different kind of normal.
oooo. That’s fun. A Different Kind of Normal.
For years I lived paycheck to paycheck. Spending money I didn’t have yet and my check clearing the bank just in time to have payments out clear the bank. And all I wanted was a job I liked, so I could pay my bills and actually Live my life, not just Survive it. For years The Struggle was My Normal. which eventually brought on anxiety and depression, and My Normal also had to be medicated for a while. For years my definition of relationships was “someone to be with, and it shouldn’t be work.” And because that wasn’t specific enough, the ideals and rules of that vagueness (got that? rules of vagueness…) caused damage to my heart and my body and my mind. And I was told those relationships were not normal. So then I become on the hunt, or the search for a Normal Relationship, the problem is I hadn’t finished getting to My Normal. I was still a mess–a hot mess, as it were. My expectations could never be met by someone else because I could not meet my own for myself. And That’s The Truth of My Normalcy.
And now, I’m older (wiser, and I use cliches and everything) and I *feel* normal because I get up, go to work or class, come home and sleep. I pay my bills on time. I have money to buy food. I’ve gained back the weight I loss (damnit) from when I was living on ramen and coffee during The Struggle, but I’ve also realized I’m okay with this. It’s part of who I am, until I decide I want to change it.
The Problem Now is–and there always seems to be a problem, no matter the size they exist–I want something More. Or something Else. and it’s when that happens, or this feeling that creeps up on me that my habits and routine and normalcy get put In Check. This is when Life sends me a challenge. Whether it be emotionally, physically, or mentally. I feel the tug at my heart but it’s not focused. I feel my eyes searching around the faces, but I see no one. I attempt to engage is something, and it feels…fake. Is …that…normal? Is The Fake in the form of some mirror Life holds up to me in order to put me In Check? And so I search.
And then, one day–I see. I see the faces, I hear the music, and this time it makes everything slow down. Like in a movie where everything goes to Slow motion–like that. I feel my heart tug, I see the face and hear the music–and then…I walk by it…ignoring it. Only now it rotates in my head on repeat and I have to decide what my next move is. How do I step out of my comfort zone, my normal-ness?
Just, take a chance.
A Risk.
That’s what changes it up. That is what pulls or pushes you out of the Normalcy of Your Day in and Day Out. That is what reminds you you’ve stopped. The Action of A Risk. The unsure-ness (probably not a word) of an outcome brought on by the pang or knocking on your heart or soul, or whatever, that IF you take this risk, THEN it could change Your Normal. And is that really so bad? Can’t just want to be a better person, you have to DO something better. You can’t just want the good job, you have to pursue it. You cannot just let life happen to you, you have to happen to It. So, I can’t be too pissed off at The Guy who took a risk on asking for my number, but I don’t have to succumb to his questions because he may think the conversation topic is normal–it’s just not My Normal.
And when you step out of Your Normal-ness, remind yourself not to move up in the world, but move forward–this way, what you have already in your past will be a reminder of how far you’ve come and because it is on the same level as you, you may remain grounded. It will remind you of The Risk and The Action. Hopefully it will remind you that you are just as human as the next guy and that it’s okay to recognize different definitions of Normalcy–and should you need to measure these definitions I bid you a flexible measuring tape.
Just remember, Normal means usual–but it doesn’t mean Your Normal is My Normal. Your Truth is different than My Truth, but Our Normal? Our Truth? Well that remains: To Be Determined.
Reading the sign
I do not know your name. I want you to know every time I see you, my heart aches. It aches the way it does when I feel helpless. Helpless because of distance. It aches the way it does when someone I care about does something great and I’m not there to hug them and be a part of it. Every time I see you, I see the hallway in slow motion. Every person starts to slow down around me as I approach you. I know nothing about you, and the other night I wanted to ask you to lunch or dinner but I lost the nerve as I got closer to you. I find myself wondering if you have siblings, or cousins or any family in the area. I find myself wondering what your story is. What you were like in high school, what serving your country was like, and what you think of everything that’s happened to you thus far. I wonder if you like soup and if you’d like to have lunch with me at Fresh & Co sometime, but I never ask. I wonder how you drink your coffee, and I’d like to buy you a cup. I wonder when the last time you smiled was. I wonder where you’re from and if you had kids with your ex-wife. I only know you’re divorced because I read it, on your sign.
I read that the VA wasn’t helping. That you are broke and divorced. I read what your military rank and position was–although I don’t know what it means and I can never seem to recall what it says once I’ve passed you. I read that you have proof of service and you often are holding a small card, the size of a credit card or ID card, with your sign, and I imagine that it is your proof of service. I wonder what you’re thinking about every time I glance up towards your face and your eyes are set at an angle about 45 degrees from straight forward. It is as if you are completely disconnected and the stare appears blank, but I’m betting you have thoughts running through your mind. Thoughts, experiences and pictures. I want to know what’s on your mind. I want to sit next to you, on the floor in that hallway between 6th avenue and 5th avenue and listen. I want to listen to what you have to say. I think you have blue eyes and blonde hair.
For some reason I cannot understand, I am drawn to you. I see people all through out the city asking for money on the trains, playing instruments, begging on corners. I see them sitting on floors in hallways and they look scary sometimes. They look “normal.” They look sad. They have blank expressions on their faces. They look dirty. You, you don’t look homeless, but your sign indicates you are and when I see you sitting on the grey tile up against the white tile with designs and quotes surrounding you in the hallway beneath bryant park…I want to stop everything and talk to you, be with you, sit with you. I want to know how I can help you. I want to know why you’re there. Why you stare at a downward angle. Why you apparently have no one you can go home to, and I sometimes want to invite you to my home and offer you a hot shower and dinner. I will be unable to offer you a place to stay, you are a stranger and I have to be careful. You could be the kindest man in NY. You could be a psychotic monster. I don’t know, I just know that when I see you I want to stop and sit and talk to you.
I want to see you smile. The first time I saw you I slowed down and read your sign and had continued walking, I reached the end of the hall thinking of you the entire time, and I turned around and walked back and took what tips I had made that day and handed it to you. You glanced up with a small half smile and said thank you and bid me to get home safe. It was quite cold that night, the snow storms were approaching with consistency and violence. And I said thank you and perhaps held your eyes a moment too long and when I broke away and started walking back to the train I wanted to turn around and go back to you again. I didn’t though. My eyes welled with tears and I couldn’t understand why and I just kept walking to the train.
The other night I cried for you again, or cried about you, or over you–I have no idea what kind of tears they were. My housemate could tell in my face just when I said “hi” to her that I was upset. And when I began to talk about you I cried. It was so sad. It was so hard. I do not know you. I believe, though, that you are somehow important. I was a firm believer in signs for a while and lately I have been living life as it is. I work. I go to school. I come home. I sometimes go to the bar and sing. I pretty much stay to myself. Perhaps this is a sign. I don’t want to read too far in to it. I don’t want to make up stories, or fabricate an entire back story for you, but I am drawn to you somehow. I think you’re important, somehow. That I’m supposed to learn something from this experience I’m having. The experience I’m having when your in my site line or in proximity to you.
I am unsure what risks I am willing to take. I am unsure what bravery, if that’s what I need, it will take to just be human and greet you. –that’s an awfully powerful sentence, I think. And I’m going to keep it. And I’m going to see what happens if I see you again. Time permitting, knowing opportunity is not a lengthy visitor, I will see what rumbles of bravery surface, and we will both see if there is more than one sign I read and remember.
Goodnight, Sir. I hope tonight you are sheltered.
Aiyani Mersai 