Raw

This here, may be the most unedited, raw feelings I've ever been able to transcribe. I may write and type through tears and sniffles and runny mascara more often.

________________________________________________________________________________ 4-7-2013

Someone... please answer why it takes a Sunday night, stuck at a red light, head on the steering wheel and mascara all over the place to search deep enough for something worthy.

I find myself itching to get home to transcribe tears into all they mean and represent. Put the hurt on paper. This moment has nothing to do with present healing and everything to do with looking back when the seas are calm.

I’ve always believed that the best dancers are those who trick you with emotions when zero emotional attachment exists. Dancer communicate through passion, not necessarily present feelings. Saying that, it goes the same for writers. In my head, I beg and plead that the days allow me to find time and desire and raw passion to write. To write it all; the good and the bad— every emotion I feel throughout the day. I find the good throughout the day. I, for the better part of time, am optimistic and happy and excited about the future.

When things are good, I don’t need writing to survive. I think of it, in a way, I crave to preserve these feelings. To bottle them up for a raining day—I can watch from afar how things will eventually look up. I can sip on them while the sun dances its way into the day. I can slurp and gulp until the emptiness fades and rainbows and unicorns and reality set back in.

Unfortunately, it’s hard to write them when things are great. I always believed it was easy to write when the going got rough, It was something to lean on; something to rely on. A comping mechanism; an outlet and form of therapy that was much cheaper than medication.

The only thing harder than breaking from cloud nine to document the great, is trying to form words for pain felt on the inside.

Than those moments creep in. I’m scared, beyond scared.

Tonight, all I know is that red light experienced so much hurt and pain and a mess of mascara. The song that witnessed it all will always hold those emotions. Like, my mascara forgot where it belonged and I was wearing it all over my sleeves.

On paper, I am complete. I’m financially independent. I know what I want. I’m willing to work my ass off. I’m comfortable in my own skin. Physically and mentally and emotionally and spiritually.

Than those moments creep in.

I compare myself others. Where they are; what they’re doing, accomplishing, experiencing. I’m not them.

Goodness it hurts.

I believe God has it all planned out.

He is out there looking for me. He loves me already as deep and pure as I adore him. He’s praying for me as I am him. I beg and plead.

Sitting at a red light with my head on the steering wheel—begging God to bring me to him. There is so much life I have left. So many plans, planned. I want a hand laced into mine; one that never wants to let go. I have this picture in my head. One that has been and will continue to be altered but the end results, always the same.

There is so much love bottled. Inside. Kept away. Waiting for the moment to explode into someone else. To crash into the dreams and desires and hopes of another human being. To have it all. Create it all. Fall in love every day and every night. Over and over again-- like the first time, every time