I have an enormous imagination, creative writing, never-ending curiosity, and joy of life. I like writing, contemplating, snow, winter, and spending time with my mom and aunts--who are my best friends. I like anything fantasy and surreal but I also like hoodies and coffee in front of a fire while the snow falls outside and the sound of snow crunching beneath my boots on crisp cold winter days. I like puppies and blue roses. I love reading and I enjoy knitting. Most of all though, I love imagining, writing, and sharing ideas with other like-minded people.
.
I saw him today. He smiled, waved, and never looked back. I was temporarily paralysed. He stunned me. I no longer had expected to see him here. So many things I wanted to ask him. So many thoughts racing through my brain. Guilt, wonder, worry, but no pain. I have come to realize, only one man has ever held enough of me to break my heart. I hurt for him, because I broke his heart. I pray he heals in a way that permits him to forgive me someday. May he never suffer as I did at Clark's hands. I hope I didn't mean that much to him.
Clark. My superman. I would have moved mountains for you. I hesitate to say it, but I loved you. They say even the most deathless love can die. I have learned to suppress. I have learned to move on. I have learned to accept. But was it dead? What I felt for you, is a conflict of my beliefs and interpretations of love. If I ever move on fuly, have I then ever loved you, or has it indeed died? If I forevermore force it to remain dormant, can I ever love someone else? I hurt. To look at you hurt. to look at her hurt. To think of how things might have been if I had only lived next door, hurt.
3 and a half years, two and a half men later, it still hurt. I sometimes still cry, when I do not sufficiently repress. I miss the days when we were best friends. I miss the days you inspired me. You made me laugh till I cried, you forbid me to give up. You would secretly turn video chat on and scare me to death when your voice started floating through the room at three in the morning. You would eat gold fishies and not give me any. Sometimes you would float them in front of the camera, as if giving them to me, and eat it instead.
If I had a bad day, you would write me poems. You sent me Stellar Kart's "Me and Jesus", you promised to be my superman forever. You will never know how much it hurt to be only Kara. I was once Lois. You will never understand what a difference it made. You will not understand, because I will never tell you. You have helped me write more stories, been my inspiration for more stories and novels, than any other human I know. You were the only man I had written stories about. I once wrote the happaii story, in hopes of finally transferring my emotions to someone else. He started dating a sweet angelic girl only two weeks later. That was a sign. I could not move on from you. But I had to. I found someone else. I made myself seek it. Anything to get over you. When you got angry for me and cried out, how I would only hurt him, what a mistake it was... I cried because you could not understand.
When push came to shove and I finally gave up, I attempted to transfer everything to a mentor figure. Anything but risk an opening in my heart for you. And I felt much attachment. I like him oh so much. I think you will be like him in 10 years. But like before, the moment I made him a story, I got my much prayed for sign. The sign said no. He pursues someone else. I cried once more. I cried, because I had really thought I, for once, could form an attachment for someone. That it was genuine. That you had finally faded and died to the back of my mind. I cried because you shone through, just like before.
I don't think of you often. The years have taught me to dominate over my emotions. To drive them to the background. After three years, I can finally say that I have no hope of a future together. I know it will never be. I no longer entertain any further thoughts of it. But I cannot let go of your memory. All the letters I have written, most of them burned away forever, none of which you have seen. You are still my superman, you always will be. You carry a special place in my heart; the only man I have loved.
I had to admit that to myself. I had to admit that even the most deathless love can die to the future. The past is yours; you own it; you were there first. Farewell, for I let you go now, for even you cannot turn back time. I will finally let go. I could not let go before, having never admitted I was holding on.
I was holding on. I loved you. No more. No more. I release it all, I finally let go of "what if things had been different", admit, accept, give up, and move on.
Three years and I am finally moving on. We will never be best friends like before. I will never find someone who is just like you. And I am not meant to. Farewell my superman. Farewell, my friend.
Naamarie
PS: This story is about a year old. I wrote it shortly after breaking up with my fiancée.
I am pretty sure I am more sad about this than you all are. =D
I am setting up my posts to future post. I have asked Damien to time stamp them but he probably won't cause he's dumb and on the road too. Just that he has his droid so he can log into my account and timestamp. ... hopefully. =D
For my sake, I hope he does; for your sakes, pray he doesn't. heheh.
Anyway. Check out my other site for my roadtrip vlog. I swear it's only like a minute and a half this time cause I don't have the time to wait an hour for it to upload and process. (fuck you, youtube.)
And why the hell won't the xanga chat work with google chrome?! GOOGLE CHROME PWNS! OKAII?!?! FIREFOX SUCKS! *facepalms* GET IT RIGHT, XANGA!
Anyway. I'm hyper, and I'm off.
Aren't you glad you don't have to spend 3 hours in the car with 3 women just like me, and me?
Still trembling; still nervous. All this time and she cannot calm her heartbeat. Years of experience; years of building history and she feels like she's starting all over again. They say wearing your heart on your sleeve is heartbreak waiting to happen. They say there is no such thing as being naive; just gullible. They lie. Where is love without trust? Where is trust without vulnerability? She knows she may be hurt; she has been hurt before. She refuses to carry baggage with her. She picks that which she can learn from to carry with her, and leaves the rest behind.
She is fully aware that she may open her heart toward someone who doesn't care. She knows there are those who lie, hurt, and destroy without reason. But she also knows what fear can do to one's heart. That wounds can fester and spread; fear can spread to paranoia. You cannot carry every thrown knife with you. Studying the knife won't tell you how to avoid future ones, and carrying them with you will only weigh you down. The more you look at them, the more you fear.
People think too much about the wrong things. Betrayal and disappointment are a natural part of life. Wearing your heart on your sleeve leaves you open to attack, critique, and hurt. But she decided that life was too short to second-guess and over-analyse. She would love, and when hurt, pick up the pieces and move on. Gullible, people say. Foolish. Someday she'll learn; someday she'll be hurt too badly to pick up the pieces again. Impulsive, childish, and immature.
She smiled. Maybe. Maybe so. And as she made his face out in the crowd, she felt nervous once more. She felt the doubts and words of others rambling in her brain. What if he hurt her like everyone else? What if it was all for nothing? What if-- but she drowned the voices out. She willed them to silence. She would find out soon enough; no use worrying about it now. His face lit up as he saw her and she dropped her bag and bolted toward him, nearly toppling him over with her hug. His arms wrapped around her and she felt the final traces of worry leave her. She felt safe; and she felt loved. Now she just wanted to give it back.
That night, as darkness fell, he pulled her closer, and her breath stopped in her throat. Wearing your heart on your sleeve was one thing; handing it over was another. She grabbed his arm, looking into his eyes; searching. Laying before him, she laid her soul bare; completely vulnerable. She no longer wore her heart on her sleeve but put it in his hands.
Daddy's calling, he wants to talk. He sits in hiding, afraid to breathe. How much longer until daddy finds him hiding in his tiny closet? Maybe underneath the bed would have been the better option. He shakes and his grubby fingers dig into his knees to stop the trembling. The footsteps approach, but he can smell daddy before he can hear him. The whole house smells like daddy. He clenches his teeth and braces himself. He doesn't want to talk to daddy. Daddy uses his hands to talk. Daddy loses his temper when he talks. The closet door opens and he is torn into the cruel light. He is flung to the ground. His favourite truck dents into his forehead.
He cries. Save me.
She doesn't remember how she ended here. She doesn't remember how it began. The acid sting of the countless empty bottles has burnt holes in her memory. She doesn't want to remember. Doesn't want to remember what broken family drove her here; who she's disappointing. She fills the holes with the passive knife, seeking self worth in back alleys and confirmation in a porcelain mirror. The bruises are from her savior; he promises every man is the last, and they'll have enough to get away. When she cries, the bruises multiply and connect. She shuts her eyes and lets yet another man on her. Blooding pouring down her legs, she stumbles into the bathroom. Blows and bruises fall upon her back as she falls to her knees.
She cries. Save me.
He fights his inner demons; tells her he'll never win without her love and support. She loves, she stands true. She tells herself she can help him win; cast off the shadows and end the pain. Every night the dishes shatter and scars spread across her heart and arms, she clenches her teeth; unclenching his fist once more. Everytime the demons win over him, she wins over them. And deep into the night as she nurses her own wounds silently, her lips tremble as she whispers voiceless pleas.
She cries. Save him.
He watches her slipping off the edge. The clothes shrink with the frail frame. He wishes he had a mother's mind to tell her what he feels inside; to tell her what she's really worth and how much he wishes she would stop; that she could stop. Another early morning and he watches her stumble in, vomit stains on her short skirt, broken stiletto heels and a stupified smile on her face. He doesn't understand; she needs this. They love her. They are there for her. She's everyone's favourite when she dances on tables and hugs the pole. Crimson tears leaking out of his heart, he tears at his hair and screams silently.
He cries. Save her.
The tiny faces and wild eyes stare at her as she carries them across the yard; away from the noise. Their parents will never notice they're gone. She ends the tears and the hunger for food and love as best she can. She hugs them as the screams grow louder; shields them as the sirens howl down the road. They cling to each other and try to drown out the noise; they shut their eyes and try to will the images away. She watches the emotional pain seep and mix with the physical, and tries to sing them to sleep; lull them to safety. As she watches the stretcher rolled in and the handcuffs snap into place, she sinks to her knees and lets the tears fall. You can't save the world. You can't save everyone. And yet
There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith
Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. ~Gene Fowler
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~William Wordsworth
The only cure for writer's block is insomnia. ~Merit Antares
I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions. ~James Michener
A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right. ~John K. Hutchens
Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"
Premium
