What Happens When a Soul Finds its Resonance in Another?

So what happens when a soul finds or believes it finds its resonance in another? Does it naturally seek to find that soul again? Does it gravitate towards that other soul like a pull some can't explain?

I don't understand just what I see in Ebony. But my limited understanding tells me so far that it's because we're both broken and in the same way. There is an emptiness in me that seeks out the company of the emptiness in him. And desires to sit in a room, in opposite corners and just brood; two empty shells, content for a moment in each other's company of kindred spirits. 

It feels like somehow, Ebony is the more extreme male version of me. Both lonely but finding ways to cover it up, shove it under the rug and too proud to show it to the world. Arrogant, egoistic, proud, stubborn and manifesting it all in a similar way. 

I would like to think that I am right, and I have found a like soul in Ebony. The same kind of empty, yet somewhere in a small, minute corner the same kind of hopeful as well. Like a game of matching patterns, I'd like to think I found my matching pattern in him. And there is a particular elation, somewhat like joy, maybe a comfort, in the company of someone whom you feel is just like you; in a soul that one believes mirrors one's own. We're all similar in one way or another. But that degree of similarity is hard to find. Maybe that resonance is hard to find which is what draws one to another. I would like to think this is true. 

However, I also know the faults and limitations of the human perception and it's capacity for delusion. It is true that we are always prone to see what isn't even really there in the first place. Because it stands to reason that if it truly does resonate then both sides will feel the pull does it not? Thus if he does not, it might be but a fragment of my imagination. Drawing lines and connecting dots that aren't even really there in the first place. And he does not does he. One would believe one would be able to tell if the other does. 

Thus have I fallen to the faults of my own humanity and drawn conclusions that are totally false in their interpretation. It seems I may have as I always do. 

Thank you.

Yesterday was an amazingly, dizzyingly good day. Good days like that don't come very often. I am truly grateful. 

Prayer.

Every night I break into a desperate flurry of prayers. I pray that I will be delivered from this loneliness. That I will learn to live on my own and make my own happiness independent of anyone else. That myself would be enough. And then I pray and hope that love will be mine one day. What would I give to be one of those girls who don't want to get married like ever. Who don't even see the merit of love. Who are apathetic to its charms. What would I give to not need something I may not be able to have. I pray that that is not the case. 

Because I Am a Writer.

We won't run out if things to talk about because I am a writer my friend and I can tell you endless things about yourself and the world. You may or may not want to hear it but I will be telling you endless things. Half of it may be bullshit but you will listen to me anyway because I am a writer. 

Why Do We Often Want Things That Are The Worst For Us?

Why do we oft want things that are the worst for us? We want things that don't bring us any good besides the fleeting pleasures of forgetfulness and carelessness. If only for a day. Even a day is too long. Instant gratification all the way. 

Stupid Things.

We all do stupid things. Maybe it's part of the human condition that we all do stupid things some time or another. Things that we really shouldn't be doing and may perhaps be detrimental. But such are we, we are hopeful beings. Even in doing such stupid things we are always hopeful that things wil turn out for the better as opposed to the alternative. 

Coincidences.

Do you believe in coincidences? I may or may not have an answer to that myself but I believe coincidences are a beautiful thing. A fascinating thing. It is just wonderful how unexpected little things, or big things, happen and coincide unplanned and unschemed. 

When I went out last night I encountered a person walking out and held the door open. On the way back I encountered the same person again and we started talking. And we ended the night by talking outside for an hour and a half at the end of which I was absolutely shivering from the cold. But I had not expected to see that person again after I held the door open and we parted ways. Much less talking to that person for so long and having a conversation that flowed so easily. 

I shall not expect to encounter that person again. Even though we live in the same building, I shall not expect it. And I am a coward. Maybe I hope to, but I fear it all the same. What if the next time I see that individual conversation doesn't flow as freely as it did that night. I shall not be as drunk. I shall not be as at ease. And the coward in me fears that. It was beautiful. And I want to keep it that way. It was a beautiful thing that happened one night and I shall be content to keep it as that. And I thank God that it happened when it did. 

Bachelorette.

I watched "Bachelorette" today and was struck by how wholesomely unlikeable Kirsten Dunst's character was. She was bitchy, she was high strung, she was bossy and she was angry and stressed and tense and cynical and sarcastic and also somehow jealous and bitter. 

All in all, thoroughly unlikeable and unendearing. 

But then halfway through the movie, I started realizing, that I was her. Among all the characters in the movie, some funny, some quirky, some obnoxious, some awkward but all somehow likeable enough in some way or another, I was HER. 

It was like looking at a surface that reflected some of my innermost desires and feelings. It was like watching my world views on display in an art gallery. And it sucked. 

Because I was bitter. I was angry and I was cynical and unhappy even though I, as so eloquently put by James Marsden's character in the movie, "have no reason to be." 

It struck a nerve, that. Why? Why am I her? I know it's a question we can't really answer. Why is anyone whatever they are. But why? Why am I her? It may not have a proper answer but at the end of the day it makes a very good question. 

Good Enough.

"What will my ex think of me when he hangs out with me in years to come? What would anyone I've ever dated think of me when they hang out with me in years to come. God yes! I made the right choice in ditching her weird sorry ass? She's just as weird as I remembered... Why the hell was I attracted to her in the first place??? What did I see in her back then? God I really was young and stupid." Missy bawled. 

"...Dude..." I faltered. I had no idea what to say. 

Mademoiselle raised an eyebrow and stared while Missy sulked quietly on her chair. 

We all say in complete silence as we pondered her question, punctuated by the occasional miserable sniffle from Missy's direction. 

"That's intense..." I started. 

Mademoiselle interrupted, "Waaay too much self pity. Those guys are assholes. Really. What the hell was so good about them anyway?" 

Missy just shrugged. There's nothing "so" good about anyone really. We're all just meh... To a certain extent, and awesome to a certain extent. Whatever we are. However "good" we are, we are in the eyes of those who have loved us or who love us. 

There was no answer to that question. 

I understood Missy's confidence or lack of it thereof. I understood her insecurities and her pain. Her worry that no one could ever love her for her. Probably many have in their lives had the occasion to feel that way. The world is harsh in its judgement of us and whether we are good enough. And more often than not, we come up short somehow, somewhere. We're never really good enough. 

But that is the human condition isn't it. That's the world in which we live in. Nobody is ever really good enough at everything. Intimate knowledge of someone will reveal that we all fall short somewhere. And as is the human condition, our flaws are our perfection (as stolen from practically every robot developing its own intelligence movie). 

It is easy for me to preach such; it is easy for anyone to preach such. The truth can be hard hitting but it'll never hit when it needs to hit sometimes. Sometimes it takes its time. The world can cause a soul so much pain. Inflict the worst insults to its dignity and corrupt the purest essence of its optimism. 

It is easy for anyone to feel and truly believe they're not good enough, they're not something enough because it is true! We're all just not good enough. But we make do with what we have. And this goes for everyone. It is the great equalizer. Only for whoever it is who do care about us, truly, we are good enough. 

Giving Up.

There comes a time in life when you decide you must give up on your dreams. Whatever they may be. Either it is by choice that we decide to no longer labour on for it, or by a slow dissipation of desire and a slow creeping in of the acceptance that we've given up where one day you realize you don't hold much hope for it anymore. Maybe it's through displacement of finding another dream that you want now instead of the other. Whatever ways it may take, sometime in one's life, one just comes to feel or realize that it just isn't going to happen. 

So am I in such a place. It doesn't make a lot of sense in my case and somehow at the same time it does. I was struck today by a feeling and a realization that it just isn't going to happen and it's time I stop hoping and looking for it. It is hopeless. And pointless. And it is time to stop. 

Do You Believe in Fate?

If you believe in fate then you must believe that there is something in store for you. A place where everything you do, no matter what it is, will lead you there in the end. A destiny that is meant for you and you alone. And it doesn't matter how many detours you make on the way, missed stops and mistakes, the road will lead you patiently and assuredly there. 

I am inclined to believe that for some strange reason, law school in the UK is mine. Over the years I have had people tell me not to do law, to do law. I myself have eliminated it as a possibility many times over; as a child, as a college student. Even on the road there doing A Level Law I abandoned it yet again and favoured media and mass communication in Australia instead. 

But that didn't last long and before too much time, I found myself yet again heading in that direction I have many a time turned from. It was not for lack of trying that I didn't manage to completely eliminate law as an option. Maybe I was just meant to be here now. 

Learn to be Lonely.

Could it be that some people fit in nowhere in this world? What are they to do then? Go about life in this perpetual loneliness knowing that nowhere in this big wide world is there a place for them to truly belong? 

Connectivity.

There's something about smart phones. Especially the very current ones. With their do-all capabilities, there is very little we will not turn to it for. But having recently acquired one myself, I find myself  growing uncomfortably attached to it. And I asked myself why. Why the reluctance to put it down? Just 30 seconds ago when I decided to pick it up again and write this instead. It felt like I was severing a connection to the outside world, to people when I put it down. That's why. 

But there's no connection to be had there. Not really. A connection to our social media and our phone screens isn't a real connection. We have built for ourselves a society which is afraid of being disconnected from other people while being at the same time so hopelessly disconnected. For there is no connection to be had there. 

The impersonality of the liking and the writing and the commenting and the checking and the status updating. We drive ourselves into believing we are connected when we are really not. Because none of the above, save in exceptional circumstances help us build a proper bond with each other. Fondness does not develop. Because we are so impersonal, even when we are being personal. 

Writing.

I've always said that life brings us to unexpected places. In fact years ago I came up with the theory that I would not have expected to be where I would be in 2 years time. And life has not since then fail to surprise me. The decisions we tend to make change as we grow and that tends to lead us to places where we would never have expected to be now. But where once I was a writer, I still am now. I've always been a writer. Even though in recent years I have stopped, shunned it somewhat because writing incurs thought, encourages it and I in turn have shunned thought and introspection from my life as it brought too much pain. The greatest beauty comes from pain and sorrow. The greatest art is delved from the wells of sorrow and pain deep inside us. It is the product of emotions felt so deep within the core that it etches itself into the psyche and becomes a reality in need of expression in the artistic form.

From pain comes the greatest poetry,
From sorrow the greatest beauty.
For happiness is too careless to keep records of its histories. It is relished and then fades away into the morning sun while sorrow is etched into the walls of stone; a standing testament of when a man has stopped and stood still, apart from the  endless flow of time if only for a moment to record his deepest thoughts and desires.

For we are as a race capable of great pourings of despair. Why do people take their own lives? Is it because the world is too harsh to live with? Or is it because they themselves are too harsh to live with?

I feared the implications of my writing. Feared to delve too deep into the wells of my soul for I would find (I believed) no good things there. It became to me a symbol of difficult times. A time of turmoil and uncertainty and I had not the energy any more to look into them. I wanted to be done with the endless times of being lost in my own thought, of dwelling within my own fantasies and shunning to an extent the world outside. And so in time, the words stopped flowing and the stream of soliloquy dried up.

But I have been and I suspect always will be a writer. We cannot deny our true natures as much as we can deny the coming of the night and the day. And though I have stemmed the flow of these morbid impulses  that bring about the best of my work, there is no denying I still retain the capacity for them. I have just refused to acknowledge them. The truly happy have no need to seek sanctuary of any kind and I wanted to be among them. Or I tried very hard to be. And writing; acknowledging those pesky thoughts and encouraging the circular nature of my introspection did not provide me with any reasonable basis to do so. It was a sad man's job. Perhaps it still is.

Though in recent years I have stopped, I have ceased to pen down very many things and poetry is but a distant activity of the past, but perhaps my soul remains one with the inclination to write.

Seeking the Balance.

It is funny how the chronicles of our gatherings and our meetings start in languid silence. We walk in, we sit down and we contemplate each other. It is a love hate relationship between us, a necessary love hate relationship such as the one between life and death itself. Hopelessly entwined, one giving meaning to the other, one existing solely because of the other. As love and hate and as life and death. We are as siblings. All of us needing each other to survive, needing each other for balance and to make sense. We all have our roles to play. 

"We need to regain our dynamics," I rubbed my forehead tiredly. "It wasn't the best system, but it worked." 

Mademoiselle sat casually, legs crossed and sharp heels glinting in the light. The slick cut of her coat and her clothes, polished, elegant, tailored, asserting. Self-assured and arrogant. But somehow after all the ordeals of the past year, a comforting presence. A reminder of a better, stabler age. No one would've guessed or even thought, that Mademoiselle with her cold, calculating, mercenary presence, could ever be a source of comfort, softness and warmth. Or some semblance of it. 

She need not say anything and she knew it. But when she did, when she deigned to grace us with her words, they seemed to drip as honey from her lips. Warm and buttery in relishing the fact that she had her presence again. She was never meant to diminish for long and to ignore Mademoiselle completely is a folly one would make. 

Missy leaned back on her chair, her soft, unassuming attire unthreatening, gentle, unostentatious. She looked tired and drawn, her limbs hanging lazily by her sides as she stretched out on the armchair. 

Slowly, bit by bit, we need to find our balance again. I was at a lost for what to say. We all knew what needed to be said, what would be said and there was no need for me to actually say it. Neither was I inclined to actually say it. 

I sat back as well, feeling the familiar soft cotton of my plain top, the reaffirming texture of my old jeans and my satchel bag by my side. We had long been bereft of each others' company. And meeting each other like this again, there was an awkwardness that lingered in the placid air. An awkwardness mixed in with a scent of guilt and spice but at the same time a comfort in it finally happening like pieces falling back into place and a sense of embracing belonging that lingers in the air as in finally meeting family again. 

"We're nowhere near it. But at least we're here now." 

Maybe we are all due a change. God knows this world moves with change. It is an ever constant dynamic of shifts and eddies that swirls in and around itself, weaving its threads into the fabric of all existence, giving it life. But where does that change lead us? Does it lead us to bigger and better places? Or darker, smaller spaces within the confines of our own minds and imaginings. 

Now Mademoiselle was never known for outward displays of affections or anything for that matter. But she knows what needs to be done, just as her tendencies may be unwise at times or a lot of times, she does step up when she needs to. When she does something, it means something. We are all unwise. It is the human condition. And she reached our her hand, first to Missy, then to me. And we linked hands, in a circle. For the first time ever, a physical manifestation of our interactions with each other, initiated by Mademoiselle herself. 

This world moves by change. And maybe we too are due a change. We may not be able to or even want to replicate what once was but we can together, create a semblance of something that works again, with the dynamics of this time that we are in, a stability that suits the present we are in. Maybe we are all due a change. But wherever and however we decide to move forward, we move forward together. 

We Are No Better Than You.

We sat in a circle, us again, meeting each other after a long time. Acknowledging each other's presence after a prolonged separation by the hectic and distracting confusion that is life so far.

Missy was hunched over in a defeated pose, her shoulders slumped, her hair limp and lank and bounceless, much like the wilt of her limbs and the downward cast of her eyes. She has had a rough time and the weeks have taken their toll on her. Much so as it had wrung her out like a sponge and hung her out to dry under the rain and the storm before being wrenched from the clothesline by an errant gust of chilly wind only to be dragged back in by the cat and left in a sodden heap on the floor.

"I'm sorry..." she intoned softly, full or remorse and guilt and burden. "I'm so sorry. This is all because of me."

And she was not necessarily wrong. What she did was an inconvenience. A burden and a pain. But somehow, in the fabric of this strange human existence where people feel that to bleed and to feel pain is to feel alive, what she did was also in this strange, nonsensical equation, necessary.

We cannot live without her and she was an essential part of the puzzle. Much as we hate to admit it at times.

Mademoiselle sat in the corner, the black in her hair bold and strong and solid. The firm set of her jaw and her eyes, the flashing of her look as she sat, a presence in an otherwise limpid room. When did she regain her stature? I wondered. It was somewhat an unforeseen though not necessarily undue consequence.

And I as always, sat on my armchair, my legs crossed in a casual and a neutral position. I didn't know what to do, and when I don't know what to do or to think, I always adopt the neutral position.

We sat in heavy, loaded silence. Much has come to pass since and much pain has been brought into the periphery. The room sank under the weight of it as it pressed down and in from all sides like a pressure, making one's eardrums pop as we try to equalize the inside and the outside.

I sighed.

"No Missy. Maybe you are a mistake. Or the sum of all mistakes. But I am a mask. And Mademoiselle is bitterness and anger and fear. We are all broken pieces of the same puzzle. We are no better than you."

Maybe that is why we need each other. Maybe that is why we have each other. Because if each of us on our own is a disaster, then maybe together, we can find some semblance of something that works.

Stream of Consciousness

Things have come to a head and I don't know where to look next. What will come out next will probably be partially an incoherent stream of consciousness spew which and undilated mind needs to get out before it chokes on it's own poison. Because expression is how the world deals with its pain and itself. It's how we handle and explain ourselves and try to make sense of this big, crazy mess that we have all come to know and love. Life as a whole.

Yes, things have come to a head and I don't know where to look next. I have spent months. And months. Wallowing in misery and dragging my feet and my whole self everywhere I went, living as through a dense haze of smog and other choking substances which threatened to block out my entire meaningful existence. Feeling like I had hit rock bottom and yet with no way to get back up, contrary to the popular saying. Months and months and months. I was wallowing in my misery and my self-pity and my regret and my disappointment and all those unpleasant things. And then I came here, and then not 2 months pass and I find myself again wallowing in the misery and the pain and the misery that I thought I had left 6570 miles behind me. And maybe this is hindsight talking but this time it seemed worse than before. More suffocating, more disabling to the heart and the soul. So much that I couldn't find a way to carry on any more. I was assaulted from all directions suddenly with my insecurities and fears and even shit I didn't know I had and didn't know existed or never acknowledged before this all came assailing me with an enthusiasm equal to a Mardi Gras day parade. I buckled under the pressure. I caved. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't move, I couldn't comprehend. I was curled up into the foetal position and yet I had to go about my day like nothing was wrong, like nothing was the matter. Because life marches on endlessly whether we participate in it or not. Life goes on uncaring of an individual woes and sorrows. It was a disorienting mess of sound and silence and noise and clamour and confusion and anger and fear and disappointment and shock and so many things in between. I had to sit down and close my ears for the din was driving me crazy and it did drive me crazy. I might have left a few screws along the wayside, I wouldn't know. Not yet anyway.

Many long nights were spent in unnecessary, needless contemplation. Many long hours were spent in uncalled for contemplation and introspection where every wound and every pain was dragged out of the mud again and again and again and again like an endless cacophony of sound and chaos and poisoned smog. Many long, quiet moments were spent in endless, needless thinking. About things. About things that were unwise to spent any time and grey matter on. Unwise. Nobody said one was wise. We are all not wise. For the most part, we humans, we are unwise beings.

Maybe I was happy once. But that was in the past. And the past is over. And it's gone. And where we are now is here today. Where I am now is here today. The past is gone and maybe I was happy once but that was in the past. There will be many things that will break your heart. Smash it to the ground and shatter it to smithereens. Run over it with a bulldozer and Zamboni the whole damn thing into the cold icy ground before you. There will be many things that will break your heart again and again and again and make you doubt the very fabric and purpose of your existence in this wide, cruel world. There will be many things that will make you cry your now non-existent but somehow still hurting like a motherfucker heart out every night into your pillow. That will make you sob the night away and squint into the morning sunlight with your puffed up teary eyes and repeat the whole damn process again the following night. There will be many things that will make you feel like the world's going greyer and greyer every day like every single pinch of sorrow is bleaching the colour right out of your world, making it go from Technicolour to a dull shade of bleh. Even grey is too good a shade for it. There will be many things that dash your heart into the ground and rend it and squish it till it leaves a bloody mess behind which you have no idea how to fix and just stare at.

But we must all just carry on. With our broken hearts, with our dulled out and disillusioned minds and souls, with sorrow weighing heavy on our spirits, we must join in on the endless march. And we shall carry, we must drag our burdens and our baggage behind us and carry on for there is nothing else to it. And maybe one day, we can finally find a way to let go of it and leave it behind.

Maybe I'll be happy again one day. But for now, the only thing to it would be to just carry on.

I Have Travelled 6,600 Miles Away

I have travelled 6,600 miles away from all I knew before. From the familiar lifestyle and culture. From the familiar food and roads and places. From everything I had left behind from my life there before. But I have travelled so far and possibly found myself back again at square one.

I arrived here and cried wretched tears that night. Bitter, wretched tears that poured out of a broken heart, spurred on my memories of what was supposed to be and reminders of what was. I took one look around and descended into a puddle of sobs.

As the days went by and the week ended, I was asked the question of whether I missed home. And somehow to my surprise I found that the answer was no. Within 7 days I had managed to start running again. Because back home was where I sank into the comfort of my daily routines and built around myself a comfort zone consisting of my daily activities and distractions. I wrapped myself in my routine like a blanket and hid. I pursued distractions like it was going out of style. And I left it all to oblivion. I hid from everything in the comfort of my familiar routines. And upon arriving here, I was wrenched out of that comfort zone, out of that routine and the warm blanket I had curled up and hid in for so long. The pain was real and raw and brought about the tears like those of a baby from a womb but burdened by more than just the shock and cold of the new world.

As the week went by since I was forced to shed my protective emotional blanket, I realized that now back home felt and seemed like the past to me. It was where I hid, where I curled up into a ball and hid and sank desperately into my comfort zone and my routines. Burrowing desperately to seek some reprieve from something no place or routine could truly give.

I didn't wanna go back to the place where I hid and burrowed so desperately seeking comfort. The memory of it depressed me, the haplessness, the desperation, I wanted to turn away from it all. And I wanted to look outwards, further ahead to future and better things. But then I realized, my time here in this place is short. Regardless of whether I like it or not, staying would be a difficult option. Work is difficult to find, and I would only be here for one year depending on various external factors and circumstances. And with that realization, I felt like there was nothing I could look forward to either.

So then I felt lost. Untethered by either a pull or a desire to go back to where I was, but not led or pulled forward by a dream, a hope or an intention. I felt lost, floating freely, un-anchored and adrift. Some would call it freedom. One could also call it a lack of direction. I didn't know where to turn for truly in that moment, all that existed was truly just today. No yesterday, no tomorrow, only today.

To a certain extent I wondered. Was it better to have longed for home since it tethers one to something and gives you something to hold on to, a certainty and a constant, as opposed to this directionless drifting in an ether of uncertainty and confusion.

Love brings us to funny places in the end.

I thought I had run and was running away from what had tethered me to the sorrow and the heartbreak that pervaded my life back there where I left. But it occurred to me the other day. I was running. I was still running. And I'd probably continue running. That wasn't the way. Because it doesn't matter where you go and what new life one carves out for oneself wherever one is. You can't run away from what's inside of you.

Fallout.

We all sat in a circle on individual arm chairs, and we all sat in silence.

I could feel the quiet buzzing in the air, an electric tingle and prickle as I sat down and took in all that has come to pass. How things have changed. And I, for one, was stunned silent.

Mademoiselle sat languishing in shadow, the silver wisps curling slowly from her stick. The shiny black heels less shiny, the powerful polished veneer chipped and cracked at the surface. All that was once stark and bright about her seemed to have gone. The dominance and the certainty, faded into a mere shade and where it once gleamed like polished steel, now just seemed weak and plastic.

I looked over to where Missy sat, her head in her hands and the shine of tears in her eyes as she looked up at us both. The sun gleamed over her hair like a halo, illuminating every inch of her, bathing her in a warm golden glow. Such brilliance and I looked on sadly as a single tear fell from her eyes and slid down her cheek, dripping from her chin to land on her t-shirt.

I knew why she was crying. And why Mademoiselle looked on in silence. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing I could do. At least, I didn't think.

"What am I going to do?" Missy whimpered softly.

I squinted slightly as I looked at her, the glow too bright. Too bright.

"Mademoiselle, do something," she pleaded. Even her name fell flat on the tongue and ears.

Mademoiselle sighed and sat up, "There is nothing I can do Missy."

Missy shrank back into her halo and I felt a loss of control. Like things were out of my hands and they were slipping. Slipping every which way and where. Well, maybe they were. The strings I used to pull, that were taut in my grasp and that I manoeuvered swiftly and easily were now gone. As I looked down, feeling the absence of their familiar tension in my palms. It was all up in the air now. How had we come so far?

I looked at Missy, as she stared back at us with a slightly bewildered look in her eyes. She had never been in the spotlight this much before, in such a way and thus had never known the full extent of her potential. Neither had I. And as a result, I was reeling from the discovery. I looked down again and felt the familiar pang of my loss of control; and the bewilderment that followed it. Maybe once day we will all move out of this shock.

"We're learning quite a few things about ourselves aren't we," I intoned flatly.

"To put it lightly," Mademoiselle said weakly as she exhaled a thin stream that shot into the air and floated languidly, thinning out into nothing.

"I'm sorry guys... I'm sorry," Missy trembled and hugged herself, seemingly making herself smaller even as she glowed brilliantly against the sunlight. She looked particularly guiltily at Mademoiselle, sitting half-obscured in the shade.

I sat quietly, contemplating all that I have discovered. We had all learned much and all of us, had learned things we didn't like about ourselves.

"I can't believe I did all that. It was so disgraceful. I didn't know I could be so pathetic," Missy wept softly.

Until today I hadn't believed that Mademoiselle could fade so much into the shadows either. We surprise ourselves sometimes.

"It's ok Missy... It is what it is," I said resignedly.

"We all are weak in different ways," I continued. "And maybe you are weak, but so are we. There are things we all can't do."

We were all missing something. That's why we needed each other.

"Letting you take control was a disaster," Mademoiselle spat bitterly.

Missy turned away as silent tears coursed down.

"Look, she loved him and that's why we let her take over. It was a good thing," I said soothingly.

Mademoiselle just crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked hard at the both of us. "I told you nothing good would come out of it. Nothing."

I nodded, "Yes, it failed. But it was something that had to be tried." "Don't take it so hard, both of you."

Mademoiselle sniffed and turned away, taking a drag as she lounged on her seat. Missy just sighed heavily and bent forward, putting her head in her hands again as she tried to blot out the blinding light that was on her. But at least, she had stopped crying.

"We were in a rut before and now we're in a rut after," Mademoiselle muttered angrily. "I told you, her influence is degrading and destructive."

I glanced over at Missy who just sat there and stared solemnly at the ground, looking for all the world as if she agreed. But that was Missy.

"No, Mademoiselle, \" I sighed as I looked around at my friends who I have not seen in a few years. "We need her and you know it."

"I just say her decisions are unwise, that's all," she sniffed stubbornly.

"Yes, they may be unwise. But sometimes they're just the decisions we have to make," I said.

Perspective.

I have done many things that I regret in my relationship. And now when I look back on it I wonder. Was I really that person? Was I so comfortable in it that that was the real me?

Looking back now I can't seem to believe it. But perspective shifts. And now it has shifted back to a place I haven't been in 2 years. And it is with a heavy heart that I look back at the things that I have done. The way I behaved.

I was good. I was plenty good. And no one is without flaw. I recognize that. And I am not aiming to be perfect. Just sometimes I feel like I was foolish. I behaved rather foolishly. Rather immaturely. But maybe that is who I am.

I was a different person. So different now and then. Perspective changes.

~ When the wind is blowing in your face, and the whole world is on your case. I could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love ~

Why Do I Write Now?

I haven't written in a long, long time. Why do I write now? Is it because I have fallen so far that I have resorted to previous haunts to sort myself out somehow? Does my subconscious feel desperate enough to reach out into any foothold it can grab onto be it something outdated and found in the habits of the past?

Why did I not write then? Why did I stop? ... Maybe it was because I was happy. And happiness does not need an outlet. It just leaks out of every single thing you do, like barely contained rays of light. Because happiness is not a lonely thing; it is not confined to the solitary spaces of your mind where they fester and beg for an outlet that is not so personal yet personal enough. Hence, writing.

Why was I reluctant to continue? Why did I associate writing as an act of the fallen? Maybe because I did not like the darker spaces of my mind it brings me to. The sordid, melancholy, convoluted spaces where ideas twist and form into something that looks nice on paper but not in experience.
Maybe because I am disgusted by the habits and the mentality brought on by this activity of writing. Makes us feel like we are smarter. Makes us feel more superior somehow and in that we dwell, whether we know it or not because the expression in written form is a skill that must be good to possess. Makes us overthink things and in doing so, keeps us writing about it, thinking about it, instead of feeling it. Feeling in its purest form, uncontained by mastery of language, no matter how fluent.
Maybe I associate it all with darker days. Days when my written word was my only companion and listening shoulder for I felt like I had no one to talk to and no one to share with. Maybe it reeks of that sense of loneliness I carried around with me like a cloud and I don't want to admit that it's back. The heavy, oppressive disconnection.

Then why do I write now? God knows. Why do I write now? Because I suffer a broken heart which is while insignificant, is significant enough in the history of any man's life.

Why is there even a chance that this time could be different? There is no chance. I highly doubt that it's any different this time,

So why am I cataloguing insanity this time? Because I let one person open the floodgates and open up a very dangerous part of a person. Especially dangerous to one who has stupidly decided to seal theirs for whatever insane, cowardly reason there was. I let it happen and it happened and I changed. I became someone else and while I cannot be sure that someone else is a good someone else, or even an improvement from the previous, the changes happened and I just rolled with it. It was a good place. It was a nice, safe place to be where while one may still have one's problems, it was a good, safe place to try to fix them. In the embrace of a welcoming and understanding influence. Where one feels accepted and loved.
But it ended. And now everything is clattering in there because the one string that held them all together, the new improvements, the one thing that made them made sense and seem worthwhile has been snapped and everything clatters around in the mess. Where do I find what belongs where and how do I put it all back together in a good and coherent manner? Especially when the mess is so large and unprecedented that I trip all over myself trying to sort things out.

So why do I write now? God knows. Maybe I just need a way to help myself.

I learned today. That love can be difficult.

I learned today. That love can be difficult.

It is not the ideal that we write, sing and talk about or hear, watch and read about. I don't know if it ever was or if it ever will be.

Not to say that love isn't all those things and more. I'm just focusing on the "and more" part. Because it is not the ideal when we take a closer look at all the "sordid details". That's why they're called sordid details. They just ruin the ideal somewhat.

And love being an abstract concept, cannot logically, be blamed. It's a beautiful thing. It gives joy, meaning and humanity.

But it can't be the ideal. Because we are only human. And misunderstandings happen. Problems happen. Oversight happens. Life happens.

We sail past each other every day like two ships passing in the night, and where things get lost is where the missing pieces of the ideal go. We see what we want to see, what our paranoid minds tell us to see, what our truthful hearts tell us we must see. And in those gaps of understanding, where we misunderstand each other, where the heartache happens and the blame runs either way; where it is so that each story has two sides to it. That is where the ideal fails to materialize. And that is where the missing pieces go.