For my mom, I love you.

I miss you. I feel you watching over me. You'll never know how much I miss you.

I've done somethine wrong

But I still have my marriage. I tried to look for the perfect man. I tried to get happier. I tried so hard, so long, devoted so much of my energy to finding this elusive creature. I tired myself out. I cried. I wept. I left any man in the lurch not resembling the perfect combination of attributes I was looking for.

And when I truly believed I found him, twice, he did not want me. He was content on his own. I loved him for that brief period of my time. Then, in the aftermath of rejection and failure, I became desperate. I  started clinging to anything. No matter how unnatural their behavior to mine. No matter what, I clung. I stayed. I tried to make it work. And got hurt from incompatibility. And the world would judge me for what I did in the interim. But the world has nothing on what I have in store for my own self deprecating each day. And I judge the world in turn. But I should hope no more. For what I've done, for what I did, I want to put it in the past. I have to move forward. I have to gain my objectives. I have to fight for what will push me forward, for myself. And no one could have told that story to me better than the turmoil brought from the search for a  good man.

He

He judges me full heatedly for my drinking. My little black bubbles just won't do it for him. I don't blame him. So I try hard to push out words from his lips to please my self confidence. I push out tiny smiles form my heart, like trying to poke out goose feathers from a down comforter. Slowly at first, then fast as full tugs of anticipation are pulled out.
 I feel him. I know him. I touch the essence of him in the middle of the night when he's not looking or thinking of me. And I think of him.The platonic nature of our relationship and I understand how very much this is meant to be. It's okay.

I F'd up

I didn't love him. I didn't even particularly feel attracted to him. His name was ____ and he was a part of the armed services. I felt like I couldn’t hurt him. I couldn’t even do anything but tip toe around him. Even asking him to turn up the heat seemed the extremity I didn't want him to go through just for me. He had tattoo’s. I traced them with my fingers. I kissed his lips. But first I kissed his nose and that started a cascade of emotions and feelings and physical reactions I couldn’t stop. I should have stopped it. He gave me every out. He was a gentlemen in every way. I don't know where I'm at now. I can't stop thinking about him. I know I shouldn't put this out to the world. I know it's dumb. But I have. Because he meant I don't know what to do. I can't stop this and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

One dimensional

I like to put everything in a one dimensional field. Like plastic magnetic letters on a refrigerator. Take all my problems and lay them out smoothly to fit all my rules and not so much theirs. Then have myself walk around this one dimensional world with me being the only three dimensional being thing in it. So that I don't touch anything at all.

Reality

There use to be this tree house on a path I use to bike, as a teen. When I was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, until I left for college. I loved this path. It couldn't have been more than a mile long. It was deserted, next to a housing development but carved out a forest. On the other side, a restricted access reservoir, my friends and I, of course, peeked into once in a awhile. I use to ride that path on weekends and sometimes weekdays, thinking of nothing at all. There was a pond half way through the path we use to cool ourselves off in it in the summer.
That tree house fell over, fell after a wind storm. We never did have the guts to traverse those rickety wooden boards and man it's bow. It lay there a treasure untook. Some place wondered upon and guessed at. Our parents thoughts keeping us out, though they weren't there. "It'll break under your weight." "Better not go up, those are rusted nails and boards."
We longed for freedom from their dogma, searching for it, yearning for it, racing down long paths cut between a reservoir and a housing development for it. We foolishly believed that what confined our minds inside theirs were the four walls of that house that we bravely ventured out of one or two days a week down a dirt path with a too often visited pond a never entered tree house.

It's just a washing machine

The humming of the bathroom light, the laundry going into rinse cycle. They are the choruses of life. They are the rhythms that sustains us, bind us, keep us subconsciously aware monotony abounds when nothing inside us feels normal anymore. Humming and swooshing goes on and on without our discretion, concern or involvement. Nobody asks the laundry to make a new noise or to improve its performance, to improvise. Nobody asks the bathroom light to hum harmoniously. we just hope all our machines work in the morning. But that humming so constant, so bland, so dependable, mimics the very livelihood we wish to emulate. Dependability, strength during turmoil. The ability to shoulder the burdens of others, consistently and without need for reprieve. It's just a washing machine but I'm jealous.