There’s Only Lint.

My pockets are almost always empty. I shuffle down streets and watch as others dig deeply into theirs and pull out alluring anecdotes, vignettes made of gold, and hearsay from days passed.  It amazes me how there’s always something. How they never seem to run out of things to produce. How their pockets remain full of this and that.

There have been times when I forgotten the rare occasion of having a tidbit tucked in my back pocket. I’d feel it’s bulge when a seat was taken, making the act uneven and disagreeable. Confused, I’d fish it out and stare at it. In my eyes it’d be beautiful. Sultry. Formidable. Vital. Perhaps too vital. Is this something I’d dare put on the table for all to see?

Surely no one wants to see it. Surely they wouldn’t understand.

Back into the pocket it goes until I’m able to get it safely into my abode. I put it in with the others and pray that it doesn’t fester. That it doesn’t go unnoticed and forgotten. That one day I’ll share it and no one will laugh.

I don’t like to to walk with extra weight, so my pockets are emptied on a daily basis. That, and I’d be humiliated if a certain something were to fall out without my knowledge and someone would pick it up. Or if someone were to  haphazardly step on it because they were too busy searching their own pockets for something new to present. It would fracture under the weight of their nonchalance and simultaneously, knots would form in my throat. I’d mourn its loss for days and walk around in a haze of disbelief. It’s too risky a situation for me.

I’m possessive.

For My Soul’s Sake.

You asked for my soul and I refused wholeheartedly. You asked ‘why,’ and for lack of a better explanation, greedily, I told you: “Because it’s mine.” What’s more is the fact that I was rightfully confused. Hadn’t you already experienced the more colorful parts of it? What else could you have possibly wanted? Blood? Tears? Life?

But I was wrong.

During that specific time, there were no colorful parts of my soul. Everything was enveloped in a haze of dusk. A palpable haze which you liked to poke at, just to see if it were real or not. Yet you possessed the same haze–dangerous and thick. I dared not stick a finger in there in fear of its limitless, yet curiosity had me staring at it, wondering if perhaps I could see to the bottom.

There is no ground to you. Nothing that I could put my feet on and stand easy. Everything’s unstable, rickety, unstable, and the lot. But you still want my soul?

I’ll say we’re both right, only in the sense that we’re both wrong. Extensions were given in a tepid manner, without much thought but also without much conflict. Is that how these things go? Rather, how these things went?

Moments laced with fear. Words murmured instead of yelled. Thoughts left to fester within their proverbial bottle. We’re wrong and unapologetic.

On Drowning.

My guess is that most people just don’t notice it. Or perhaps they do notice it, but aren’t sure of what’s taking place. One in such a position of drowning cannot simply tell a bystander what’s occurring–screams of help are muffled by dense waters. With communication cut off, one is left to the mercy of passersby, who more than often remain as such and continue their leisurely strolls into the depths of unawareness. Which, in turn, leaves one in the mercy of oneself–now is the perfect time to teach yourself how to swim.

7.19.12

While sitting at my desk at work, I peered over my shoulder to see that sadness was there–looming and ready to pounce. I wondered what it was doing there, being as I hadn’t met it for quite some time, but waved it off as being non-threatening. My mood had been consistent for months now–not too happy, but nowhere near the deadly sorrow that I was familiar with–and I deemed myself as being too far from it’s reach. Apparently, I was closer than I thought.

The phone rang, and I answered it because well, I get paid to, but also because my co-workers had gone off into the worlds of their cellphones and either didn’t notice or didn’t want to be bothered. A woman was on the other end, upset about something that I couldn’t help her with and irritated because of that same reason. I tried what I could to get her to understand why exactly it was I wasn’t able to give her the answer she wanted, but her tone grew more and more acrid and I could tell the phone call was going to be a long one.

Nearly ten minutes went by, and she finally got the hint that she was barking up the wrong tree. We hung up, and my co-workers stared at me expectantly–waiting for me to tell them what happened. I didn’t have it in me to talk badly about her, but the question arose: “What did that dumb bitch want?”. I said ‘nothing’, and tried directing the conversation elsewhere when I heard a voice behind me chime in: “That bitch had you on the phone for so long. Why are these people so fucking stupid? They need to get a life and stop fucking calling here”.

By then, the office had exploded into a series of complaints, judgments towards people we didn’t know, and a numerous amount of f-bombs. Not even a minute of this, and sadness tapped me on the shoulder. Naturally, I was startled, because for years I have been listening to these same explosions and not once has it ever reared its head. I was taken aback by its presence and rightfully confused when my throat tightened and tears began to form within my eyes.

Rushing to the bathroom was the only thing I could think to do. I wasn’t quite sure why the emotion had hit me as hard as it did, but I did know that I didn’t want anyone else to be aware of it. Leaning over the sink, I began to retrace the steps of  me feelings, searching for which one ended up being a land mine of sorts. I ended up in the time after the phone call, and immediately knew what had occurred: The negative remarks regarding the woman on the phone had stirred something within me.

Negativity is nothing new to me, especially when I’m in the business of customer service. People call and scream for reasons unknown to them; their egos are boosted because their faces are hidden, and they feel as though they’re entitled to whatever it is they want. This annoyed me a great deal when I first started out, but as of late, I’ve been way too exhausted mentally to even think of mustering up any sort of anger. So I’ve been letting them vent, rant, or curse whoever they need to, until we come to a place of silence. Then I try and do my job. Alas, the people that I work with are less patient and more likely to catch ferocious attitudes.

Usually, I get this nervous feeling when tones turn mean–afraid that someone is going to say something that they’ll regret. Today, it was sadness. Maybe I’m growing to be sensitive, or maybe it’s something else. Could it be that I’ve grown to see that speaking ill about people is useless and a waste of words? Perhaps the fact that no one knows how to co-exist peacefully, or even try  has begun to emotionally drain me. It’s baffling how hostile someone can grow towards someone they have never met. How easily it is to pass judgement onto someone because you feel as though they have wronged you. Throwing words around without a second thought.

I’ve become frustrated passed anger. Passed rage and fury; I’m at the point where there’s no energy left to fight. I’m just here… saddened by what I hear as I walk through the streets and on the verge of tears because of what I see on these screens. It’s been asked so many times before, and yet I have yet to hear an answer: Where is the love?

Regret? What’s the point?

Here I am, the semi-heavily tattooed woman. The woman who has made very conscious decisions to meet with a tattoo artist and have five or fifty needles burrow ink into the second layer of her skin. The woman who chose to deal with the sometimes excruciating pain. The woman who looks down at her arms and smiles.

Yes, I am quite aware that these markings on my skin are permanent. Yes, I know that because I do have tattoos, people will tend to look at me differently. Yes, I know that they are often frowned upon. No, I do not regret getting any of them.

What’s the point in regretting something so minuscule as a tattoo? Why would I sit here and fret over a little spilled ink, when I was aware of what I was doing when I got them? Maybe it’s me, but have people forgotten the meaning of the word ‘regret’?

I’m always asked what I’m going to do when I’m older, and I’ve grown quite tired of that question. I have no clue what I’m going to do when I get older; I’m no fortune teller. When I’m older, I’ll die, that I know for sure. But will I be sitting there in my rocking chair saying, “Gosh, I sure shouldn’t have went and gotten all these tattoos”? Maybe, maybe not, (although I highly doubt it).

Regret is something that you ask people who have done terrible things. Murderers are often asked if they regret the crime they committed. Burglars are questioned whether they regret stealing that poor man’s car or not. Have I done something so wrong that I have to constantly be asked if I regret it? Are my tattoos offending you in any way? Have they committed some heinous crime?

No. Yet, people still find the right to ask me if I’m going to think back on my life and regret something so innocent as tattoos. Someone, please tell me, what would be the point in that.

I Wouldn’t Change a Thing

They say the past doesn’t exist, (whoever they are), and I’ve begun to acknowledge this as being true. Many people enjoy mulling over events that have happened “back-in-the-day”; needlessly poking at them, and worrying about their effects. They silently wish that they could go back and change things. “If only I could’ve done this differently. . .” they think. But what’s the use in that? If the power to travel back into time was handed to us, what would be the point in using it?

As of late, I’ve learned to envelope myself in present moments. The past has lost its luster to me, and I’ve grown quite tired of thinking about it. It seems senseless to clothe myself in events that are so distant. To weigh myself down with the thought that history might again repeat itself. To waste energy wishing and praying that I would have done something differently or said something louder.

Everything that happened is old news. Living in your past is a senseless act in my eyes. You wouldn’t dwell on a weather forecast from two years ago, would you? Absolutely not, because it has nothing to do with the weather right now. Right now, you’re missing a sunny day just because you’re fretting over a storm from back then. You can’t appreciate the slightly warm breeze, or the birds happily chirping. You’re stuck worrying over things that could’ve been, but that’s just the thing. They could’ve been, but they weren’t, and that’s a very necessary distinction.

Aspects of your past will remain as they are. There’s no way to change them. No matter how hard you try and destroy them, you’ll never reach them–you won’t get anywhere close to them. Those events are gone; they’ve done their duty. Right now, you should be focused on right now.