Trying to figure out my place
somewhere between this new,
unfamiliar place between the cracks
and the old world with its
responsibility and values
is the hardest thing to
undertake.
I didn't ask for this role,
the role of keeper of
tradition and key
to future hope,
I was only
the first
born.
Unsuccessful in finding the balance.
Unhappy in the current groove.
Unbelieving of the last few words.
Waiting for the response, or lack thereof.
Waiting for a miracle or disaster.
Waiting for an answer from above.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
A little birdie told you what?!?!?!?!
What in the world? I'm so pissed off. Who is saying such things? I already had to deal with this before, not again. Not ever again. Dude, we talked twice. TWICE?!?!?!?! Forget being nice, I'm now going to be so mean, he'll wish he never met me. Seriously.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Everything I say tends to come back to bite me in the butt.
****
I don't want to talk to him. I don't really want to talk about him to them. I don't. Really, I don't.
****
I graded papers for two hours. TWO and a HALF HOURS really. Or maybe it was really just two. Either way, it was too long.
:/
****
Okay, actually, I'm dying to talk about it. However, since my first statement is true, everything DOES come back to haunt me, then I really don't want to talk about it (so statement #2 is also true). I did really grade papers, maybe because I wouldn't be free to answer the phone (especially since I really hate grading papers ESPECIALLY for a really long time in one sitting). So if I'm dying to talk about it (and laugh about it....and maybe cry about it too) why can't I? Because I'll regret it.
****
Remember that time that I said the guy I was talking to was kinda gay? Remember when she said it too? She married the guy (he wasn't gay). I was 'dumped' by the guy (he wasn't gay; he didn't really 'dump' me). She's (happily?) married. I'm (happily?) single. The guys were kinda gay.
****
So why can't I talk about it? Because.....well, you see.....because if I do, then.....ummm....I guess I can. Maybe I will. But how can I talk about it without coming straight out and blasting him or saying something mean? And who the heck am I supposed to tell who won't ask questions?
****
I need a therapist. (But I don't believe in such BS.) I need...nope, don't really need anything else.
;)
****
I don't want to talk to him. I don't really want to talk about him to them. I don't. Really, I don't.
****
I graded papers for two hours. TWO and a HALF HOURS really. Or maybe it was really just two. Either way, it was too long.
:/
****
Okay, actually, I'm dying to talk about it. However, since my first statement is true, everything DOES come back to haunt me, then I really don't want to talk about it (so statement #2 is also true). I did really grade papers, maybe because I wouldn't be free to answer the phone (especially since I really hate grading papers ESPECIALLY for a really long time in one sitting). So if I'm dying to talk about it (and laugh about it....and maybe cry about it too) why can't I? Because I'll regret it.
****
Remember that time that I said the guy I was talking to was kinda gay? Remember when she said it too? She married the guy (he wasn't gay). I was 'dumped' by the guy (he wasn't gay; he didn't really 'dump' me). She's (happily?) married. I'm (happily?) single. The guys were kinda gay.
****
So why can't I talk about it? Because.....well, you see.....because if I do, then.....ummm....I guess I can. Maybe I will. But how can I talk about it without coming straight out and blasting him or saying something mean? And who the heck am I supposed to tell who won't ask questions?
****
I need a therapist. (But I don't believe in such BS.) I need...nope, don't really need anything else.
;)
Sunday, June 15, 2008
escape
first, open the window
second, remove the screen
third, climb out
fourth, fall onto the grass
fifth, tell the questioning voices that it's nothing, you're fine
sixth, get up and close the window from the outside
seventh, laugh out loud
eighth, run
second, remove the screen
third, climb out
fourth, fall onto the grass
fifth, tell the questioning voices that it's nothing, you're fine
sixth, get up and close the window from the outside
seventh, laugh out loud
eighth, run
ringing in my ears
When this writing is complete, I will pick up the phone. I can’t really tell my friends. Every time that I do they listen too carefully. They don’t listen to what I want to say but what they think I really want (and maybe I do, I’m not certain about anything). I mean, what do we have in common? A country that I’ve never seen and don’t really know? Religion. It is religion, or so they will tell me. But what if I don’t know where I’m at now? What if I am really not too sure about marriage or relationships? What if I don’t want to start something that I won’t finish? I can’t call my friends and complain because they won’t really listen. I can’t call my friends and tell them because I won’t giggle and be friendly.
When I am done writing this, I’ll just have to call. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about this and I don’t want to write about it and I don’t really want to live this. I don’t know what I want. The truth of everything is that I don’t know what I want and I don’t really believe in all this crap. The basis of everything is that I don’t know who I am and what I want. I am lost.
When I am done writing this, I’ll finally call back. I want to tell my friends that he is desperate. I want to tell them that I can’t even remember what he looked like. I want to say that he is stupid for even trying. Weren’t my mannerisms clear enough? When someone doesn’t answer three times in a row, isn’t that reason enough to stop?
When I am done writing this, I’ll give in and have a stupid awkward conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to or try to impress. I don’t even think communication is possible, but I will try. I don’t like playing games, and this only seems like a game. I don’t like pretending, but it seems like pretending. I feel like my heart is under pressure, like my head is in overload. I don’t know.
When I finish complaining, I’ll call. I will pick up the phone and dial the number. I will spend a few minutes in a conversation I don’t want to have. Maybe I do. I don’t know what I want. I guess I don’t want to be alone.
When I stop typing, I’ll dial the number. Last night I realized that I’m the last of my crew. I truly realized it. I wanted to leave the party, I wanted to sit down instead of dance. I walk away when someone says “Uqbal farhatik” (my translated meaning: hope you get married next) or tries to talk about weddings and engagements. I don’t want to be forty and unmarried. It’s not fun to get old and have no one. I don’t think I want to be twenty-five and married either. It’s not fun to be responsible for others. I don’t know what I want. I miss being able to call up my friends and go out at the drop of a dime. I miss random lunches and being able to go to the movies whenever we wanted.
When I convince myself in writing, I will pick up the phone. Maybe my fear is kids. I expect to have them; I’m not convinced I want them. When they were married, they could still go out. When they had kids, life was over. Not for that reason alone, though it is a good one, I fear kids. When my friends complain of marriage and their husbands (or wives sometimes), I wonder if it really is worth it. When I have to make breakfast, I think “Is it worth it?” When I see them laugh at each other, I think, “Maybe it’s worth it.” When I remember that feeling in my tummy, the butterflies, and the lightheadedness, the dizzy sensation, I know it must be worth it. But when I have to try so hard, I think it is not.
I’m going to call. I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want. I hate this part of everything. I don’t even want to write this. I definitely don’t want to post it. I have written it and I will post it. I have to make it real. I have to legitimize my writing. I have to give my fingers some purpose. I have to smile and pretend. I have to write and be real. Now that I feel drained of all emotion, I will call. What do I have to lose?
I am calling.
When I am done writing this, I’ll just have to call. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about this and I don’t want to write about it and I don’t really want to live this. I don’t know what I want. The truth of everything is that I don’t know what I want and I don’t really believe in all this crap. The basis of everything is that I don’t know who I am and what I want. I am lost.
When I am done writing this, I’ll finally call back. I want to tell my friends that he is desperate. I want to tell them that I can’t even remember what he looked like. I want to say that he is stupid for even trying. Weren’t my mannerisms clear enough? When someone doesn’t answer three times in a row, isn’t that reason enough to stop?
When I am done writing this, I’ll give in and have a stupid awkward conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to or try to impress. I don’t even think communication is possible, but I will try. I don’t like playing games, and this only seems like a game. I don’t like pretending, but it seems like pretending. I feel like my heart is under pressure, like my head is in overload. I don’t know.
When I finish complaining, I’ll call. I will pick up the phone and dial the number. I will spend a few minutes in a conversation I don’t want to have. Maybe I do. I don’t know what I want. I guess I don’t want to be alone.
When I stop typing, I’ll dial the number. Last night I realized that I’m the last of my crew. I truly realized it. I wanted to leave the party, I wanted to sit down instead of dance. I walk away when someone says “Uqbal farhatik” (my translated meaning: hope you get married next) or tries to talk about weddings and engagements. I don’t want to be forty and unmarried. It’s not fun to get old and have no one. I don’t think I want to be twenty-five and married either. It’s not fun to be responsible for others. I don’t know what I want. I miss being able to call up my friends and go out at the drop of a dime. I miss random lunches and being able to go to the movies whenever we wanted.
When I convince myself in writing, I will pick up the phone. Maybe my fear is kids. I expect to have them; I’m not convinced I want them. When they were married, they could still go out. When they had kids, life was over. Not for that reason alone, though it is a good one, I fear kids. When my friends complain of marriage and their husbands (or wives sometimes), I wonder if it really is worth it. When I have to make breakfast, I think “Is it worth it?” When I see them laugh at each other, I think, “Maybe it’s worth it.” When I remember that feeling in my tummy, the butterflies, and the lightheadedness, the dizzy sensation, I know it must be worth it. But when I have to try so hard, I think it is not.
I’m going to call. I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want. I hate this part of everything. I don’t even want to write this. I definitely don’t want to post it. I have written it and I will post it. I have to make it real. I have to legitimize my writing. I have to give my fingers some purpose. I have to smile and pretend. I have to write and be real. Now that I feel drained of all emotion, I will call. What do I have to lose?
I am calling.
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