it’s all a facade

At the Drive-In: Embroglio

i had a friend who died
for something he really loved
i had a friend who stood
for none of the above
i had a friend whose experience
was riddled with scars
who got drunk one night
in the trunk of louie p.’s car
i had a friend who’d love to scare you
as was his affection
and tremble you did
’cause you weren’t worthy of his friendship
i had a friend, but now
he’s stranded on the mesa street exit
and sometimes i’m jealous
’cause i’m still at the intersection
i had a friend whose heart was too heavy to hold
yes there’s blood on the median
like a boat without oars

duct tape the cross on the brown colored box
single file line on the unpaved road
they tipped their hats, respect for the dead
in juarez, mexico is where they buried my friend

there are no words to express
the loss i feel since you’ve been away
you made this typical sad song
a physical classroom
where i learned nothing
just flashes of your face

it’s all a facade and nothing really matters now
he’s stranded somewhere on the mesa street exit
and sometimes i’m jealous waiting at the intersection

i had a friend whose heart was too heavy to hold
yes there’s blood on the median like a boat without oars

it’s all a facade, and nothing really matters now

this is how i feel often. specifically, that i’m jealous of those who live their lives on the edge. i do in some ways, i suppose. i have gotten braver. done a few stupid things. plan on doing many more. this is how i want my friends to describe me one day. that i had a heart too heavy to hold. an experience riddled with scars. that they could feel my friendship required some worthiness.they could describe just how much passion i had for life, and for everyone i had in my life.

today i read the blurb of some book by… john green? doesn’t really matter. the female character (love interest) was described as “beautiful and edgy”. i want to be described like that. i’d like to think one day, someone will find me beautiful and mysterious and edgy and dangerous.

i am attempting to preen an enigmatic image. i’m fairly private. don’t engage with gossip. don’t fuss myself with what people say about me. but i’m too loving and caring to be cold forever. i suppose i do seem cold, because i am shy and closed. when i get to know people though any enigmatic side vanishes because if i feel that connection with someone i am self-revealing. and tend to show a personality best described as quirky and daggy. but also neurotic and intense.

life is a long journey to find oneself. to figure out oneself. to reduce an incomprehensibly complex person to descriptors. to something simple, something that can be understood. i am a woman. i am 30 years old now. i am in love. i am stable. i am happy. i work in publishing. i am kind. i am loving. etc.

do we ever know who we are? i don’t think there is a ‘real’ me. i am too changeable. i want too much. i love life because it is complex, because it is full of possibilities. i will be a thousand girls. there is no one quintessential essence.

i will live in italy and will have wild, passionate sex with an italian man, and daily sip sambuca, and we’ll spend our days eating fine food and doing nothing.

or i’ll drift around venice and paint the canals, wander through the shops, draw the churches, the views.

or i’ll wander the streets of paris, completely alone, but feeling no loneliness. complete in myself, a small  dark figure.

or i’ll be in mexico drinking tequila, and partying.

or i’ll be married to a lovely man in new york city.

or i’ll be a beatnik in amsterdam.

does the same girl do this? different girls?

for the thousands of lives i could lead there are an equal number of women. if we view a woman as something reducable. like a book character. her own individual, visible characteristics. stories generally simplify humans, to make it easier for readers to follow. could you describe yourself in 400 words, like an omniscient narrator?

i’m going to try.

435 words

She had a way of looking more than a way of being. She could hide because she could be observer, not observed, and was often happy not being noticed, though occasionally enjoyed attention. She was more often happy in her own little world, a world that seemed to be reflected in her large blue eyes. We associate big clear blue eyes with innocence; but they grey that muddied the blue belied the mixture of naivety and wisdom that led to misadventures and heart ache.

Maybe if she’d had her childhood blonde hair she would have looked a bit more innocent; instead her hair was jet black, a jolt against her pale skin. The contrast seemed to make her seem more vulnerable; and if we looked closely at her small hands (often described as being like a little girl’s) we’d see the blue veins more visible than on most, spidering up the forearms. As well, she always seemed to have bruises she could never explain, like an awkward little girl.

That’s often how she felt. At once, too young and too old. She had naïve expectations, naïve ideas of love and relationships and sex and sometimes life itself; and it seemed to hurt her more than it would others when her expectations weren’t met. She always seemed to be hurting more than most people, she wore her heart on her sleeve and loved everything and everyone unequivocally, and often undeservedly. She was hyper-sensitive and wished she could brush things off like everyone else seemed to be able to, but everything seemed to be directed specifically at her poor vulnerable heart.

For all the frustration her constant feeling caused she was generally content; because as much as her lows seemed to spike dangerously low, her highs reached the highest peaks. She cried more than most people but laughed more than most too. Her passion wormed its way into every facet of her life but found its largest reservoir in life itself; in appreciating its diverse and fluctuating emotions and its inherent insanity and most of all its beauty. The beauty that comes from insanity.

Sometimes she felt like a stranger in her own body, and thought the girl in the mirror was nothing like the one inside. Then others, she couldn’t imagine being anything else. The black hair, pale skin, naturally dark skin, flushed cheeks, big eyes, crooked nose: how else could she look? Somehow she though she should be a lot thinner than she was, so she might disappear. Then other times the reasonably slim but soft body seemed the only possible vessel for her mind.

not even close to the whole picture!

but life is both too long and too short to ever figure yourself out. you just hope someday to find people who will understand you. i could write so much about me but only scratch the surface. there is too much abot myself that i haven’t discovered.


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