Invisible

I’m like that bottle you threw into the sea. You weren’t sure where it would end up, but it didn’t really matter, it would eventually end up somewhere.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Kids & People

We need to learn to just live. To coexist first of all, but mainly just live, for yourself. I mean sure, we need to look out for each other, because human nature says we’re here for one another. But on the side, when you’re not being heroic, and you’re on the sidelines watching the game, stop watching, and go play. Play for yourself, and don’t be afraid to get laughed at, because we all have a different idea of whats funny and whats not, and who sucks, and who doesn’t. No two people in this too big world think the same, we all judge each other silently, trying to pick out what makes us better from everyone else, but the fact of the matter is, you’re your worst critique, and you’re judgement of other people, don’t really matter in the long run. Stop staring at her waist, and his biceps, and try looking in the mirror, not at your face, or your hair, or your body shape, but look at your eyes. Decide where you’ve been, and how you’ve changed. Decide where you need to go, and who you want to bring along. Decide what you need to work on, and what you could fill your memory bank with. Decide where you fit, not among your friends and family, but on this earth in general. And the most important thing, is to do it all for you. Who gives a ____ that people are judging you. Is there some sort of challenge? or contest going on that the entire human race is competing in? NO, there’s not. There’s just you, and me, and everybody we love, sitting in the grass, under a tree, waiting for someone to get up and confidently pick the first apple.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

I watched him watch her. I watch his heart lift and fall with each emotion she felt. I watch him cry her tears and stretch his arms in hopes of catching her falls, and failures. He held the weight that life placed upon her shoulders. He fought along side her, and picked up her sorrows, always teaching her that they were lessons. He kept a journal in her eyes, and wrote his story on her lips. He watched her body like sunrays dancing in the water. He swam across her oceans and discovered all of her hidden islands. He loved each piece of her like she was all of the seasons, all necessary to create a perfectly balanced being. I watched him watch her, and wondered if anyone would ever watch me this way.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Transformed

There is no greater power in the universe than the power of love. The feeling of love is the highest frequency you can emit. If you could wrap every thought in love, if you could love everything and everyone, your life would be transformed.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Vegetarian

Tonight it’s warm. There are 10 of my friends, of our friends surrounding us, taking turns sipping beers and singing into the foggy lavender sky. A few volunteer to feed the fire, as other’s gather sticks, and twigs from the shore. Tonight it’s warm, but the wind chills your spine. We huddle around the fire, feeding it, sipping cheap beers, and reminiscing on the past, and imagining what has yet to come.

Jokes, teasing, and cruel, but hilarious metaphors are passed around. Tonight it’s warm, and there’s something about the summer sunshine in the evenings. It’s like medicine, like a happy pill for every young adult. In the sun, we come alive.

I’m offered a hot dog, and as a disbeliever in the consumption of living things, I distractedly shake my head, and wave it away. You’re squinted hazel irises, and edged jaw line are demanding my attention, as you sit, back resting against a prickly fallen tree. We’re comfortable there, on the shore with all of our friends, surrounded by acoustic guitars, and award winning voices. I nudge you and motion towards a brand new, lonely acoustic, leaning against a beach log beside us. You’re talented, but way to modest, as you shake your head, turning down the chance to show off. Your eyes still request my attention.

I can’t help but to notice that whenever we are near each other, there is rarely any space between us. Perhaps it’s due to my subconscious fear of losing you, but I sat there, squeezing a little too tight around your fingers.

Laughter and content conversations swam through the air around us. You and I, and all of our friends, curled up in blankets, and holding onto each other’s company; we were happy to be alive, plain and simple, happy to be here, happy to be 18, happy to soon be moving on.

The tide was creeping slowly forward, and with each breath of the ocean, the waves swam forward, then exhaled back into the big sea. I sat there, your hand in mine, staring out at the approaching, and receding waves. I was in a daze, and began to imagine the way, when people swim, they look so at peace above the water, when the truth is underneath the surface; frantic, kicking feet, waving arms and hands, doing their best to hold you up. I thought how similar this was to life, to every single young person perched around this summer evening fire. We all are happy enough, enjoying one another’s company, but on the inside, some of us don’t want to grow up, or are stressed about the choices that come with aging, and the responsibilities. I thought about you and me, and how we’d be going separate ways, neither of us to school immediately, but separate ways all the same. I thought about the hardships, and choices we may face…

“Want a marshmallow?” You held the bag out, close to my face, waiting for a response. I squeezed your hand a little tighter, then smiled. ”Animal bones, remember?” We laughed it off, and the marshmallow bag proceeded around the circle of our friends. It doesn’t really get much better than this I began thinking, completely forgetting my rambling thoughts from a moment ago. No, it doesn’t really get much better than this.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

I think i scared him,

scared him into loving me.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Hush

He was the quiet one, the one that drew me in with his electrically silent love. His mouth never moved, but when he looked at me, I watched his emotion flow from the pit of his stomach and drip from his tongue like waterfalls of flapping wings. He was like my silent sound; he spoke volumes without volume. He could write too, god damn could he write. He collected phrases between pages of leather journals, as he listened to the sharpening of syllables and cutting of verbs. He was a poet, an author, and as a lover of words, he made me feel like I was floating. I used to be a foolish girl, scoping out compliments and searching for pick me up’s, and boys who would use language and lies to help me believe I was at least a fraction of perfection.

I was young when I met him, and still a sponge, still an eclectic individual, looking for something to complete the noisy world, in which I found myself trapped. We never lived together; we met for morning meals, and afternoon coffee. We would sit and stare at one another, as he’d suck ideas from the left side of my brain, and we’d sit, listening to each other’s silence. His love for me wasn’t an action, or an emotion, but rather an ability. He was able to love me, and that was good enough.

I provided for him, a railing to toss his failure over, and ideas, to entangle his brain and rob him of sleep at night. I provided for him, a little bit of reality; I was his something quirky, something a little off the wall, but something that could sit, would sit, and listen to everything he would never say.

Communication was up for interpretation. We knew every part of one another, and I could tell you his favorite sandwich and what he took in his coffee, and how that depended on the time of day, and day of the week. I could tell you that he was quiet, and I could say confidently, that he was in love with me.

There were a few foggy nights in November that he brought me home with him, after a lovely evening of slurping Italian noodles, and sipping expensive wines. There was romance, and lust, and silent love, as usual, but late at night when he fell asleep beside me, I’d heard him humming in his sleep. It was as though the colors of the day would release themselves through a quiet tune in his dreams. His songs wrapped around my ears on those foggy lustful nights, and my love for the simple hum, pulled at my heart, as it seeped through his lips. Those nights didn’t allow for much slumber, but that was okay. He wrote me letter’s in those songs; he wrote me letters every time our eyes met.

I lay awake on those nights imagining all the ink in the world, pooled in, around and between the stars. I imagined all the letters that could be written, would be written, and should be written. I was a lover of words, and even though his lips never moved, and he never filled my closet with physical words on paper, and poems, and lyrics, he was a poet, an author, and he made me feel like I was floating

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

"We're disappointed in you"

shhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuttttttt upppppppppp

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

we all die, but how many of us really live

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Love Hurts

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Sick For Him

He is my weakness and my strength. I used to be okay, I used to be okay alone. He is my sun ray, and my rain clouds, he is necessity. I used to love life, now he is life. He is pain, and he is comfort, he is everything in between life and death. He is my breath, and my lung. My heart used to be full, and willing, now he grips half of me. I drip vehemence, I used to be okay. He is love, he is life, he is matter, he is necessity. I am sick for him. Maddened. 

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

coexist

co·ex·ist  (kg-zst)

intr.v. co·ex·ist·ed, co·ex·ist·ing, co·ex·ists

1. To exist together, at the same time, or in the same place.

2. To live in peace with another or others despite differences, especially as a matter of policy:

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

The meaning of life

is to give life a meaning

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

I'm scared

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

I would never beg

Sometimes i notice my grip is just a little too strong, i catch myself tugging at the cotton threads of your t-shirt. It's a subconscious thing, but when i stop and think about it, i realize i never really let go of you. When you're around, i feel like you're only a quarter there with me, like you're head is in the clouds, and your mind is climbing mountains on the opposite side of the world. You don't listen to me like you used too. That stare of longing, concentration, and interest is gone; you don't look at me like you're really listening. Every second that i'm not holding you, not tugging at your shirt, or gripping your palm in mine, i feel as though i lose you a little more. Sometimes i find myself holding on so tight, tugging at your heart strings, like i'm trying to pull you back to me, secure a place for you along side my life. I hold on tight, in fear of losing you completely.

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

You always say you can do anything if you try hard enough...

but i can't seem to write about you anymore. Here i am, writing on a different blog, a blog you can't see, won't ever see. I am scared of you.. what happened? I use to be mad about you, i used to write how you made me nervous, and filled my stomach with butterflies, and how they flowed off my tongue like a waterfall of flapping wings. I haven't felt that in forever...

I haven't felt loved in forever...

[thesurfaceofherbeing]

Loving you...

is an awful inconvenience 

[thesurfaceofherbeing]