022

The solace I find within the blank page is incredulous.  It has not yet been altered, it stands clean, it begs my attention.  I take care not to waste that cleanliness without purpose.  The writing helps me heal.  I let my mind speak itself, without reserve, without editing. Sometimes it reveals pain, sometimes beauty.  Sometimes it reveals nothing at all. Sometimes, it reveals the truth, and sometimes the anger bares its teeth.  No matter, I'm arriving at a strange and unfortunate realization: It is all too often that people are not who you would take them to be.  It is at the fault of many, sadly.  People consciously and unconsciously act in ways to appeal, it is human nature to please.  It is also human nature that to turn blind eye to one's own knowledge; you rationalize, or worse yet, completely disregard actions and behaviors that do not adhere to a standard of the decent and honest human being.  The discontinuities between philosophy and action run the soul raw, and run the heart weary.  Today has been a long day, and long days seldom find a peaceful end.  I suppose that somewhere, in some time, we all come to terms with our mistakes, and we all come to a place where we can forgive those who have hurt us so very deeply.  I would like to believe that, and so I shall.  It isn't the forgiveness that tends to be difficult, it's the reckoning.  It's accepting the end.  It's the battery acid that accumulates in your veins.

So I'll put it in a song, and leave it where stands, frozen, so I don't have to think about it anymore.

Die,
Oh, Die,
In my arms,
Like you do.
Them Christmas lights,
Won't burn as bright,
As in the stories,
I told you.
But every story's different,
Least that's what I'm told.
Every sunrise has a beauty,
But no beauty won't get old.
I guess that what I'm saying,
I'm finally letting go.
I hate everything about you,
Except what California stole.
Lies,
Your lips move,
But your actions
Speak a truth.
And I,
Struggle to find,
Who am I,
Without you?
But every story's different,
Least that's what I'm told.
Every sunset has a beauty,
But no beauty won't get old.
I guess that what I'm saying,
I'm finally letting go.
I hate everything about you,
Except what California stole.

I heard somewhere that the Pacific has no memory...that sounds about right.  Sometimes, she's my mom collecting snowmen, sometimes she's the wind that rakes the leaves.  Sometime's she's October, and she's the burn of all the trees.  Too often I see my future, and all that we'll miss.  I see the Christmas tree, the pretty lights.  I see us curled up by a fire, I see us sharing our lives.  I guess you can't lose something you never had.  I didn't know her back then, but I can see her peek through now and again.  Think she forgot that girl somewhere out on the Pacific, cause the Pacific has no memory.