Remember when you could do anything? Remember that?
Remember when no one could say anything to slow you down? Remember when no one's words surprised you? Remember that? Remember that?
Remember when you weren't nervous? Remember when you had a place? Remember when your knees never got weak?
Remember when you weren't helpless for other people's words?
But then everyone said things that were new -- good! but new. And surprising -- good! but surprising. And then you got over things, but things came back, didn't they? And they were no longer out of sight and no longer out of mind.
And sometimes, things felt better, and sometimes, things felt worse. And sometimes, you ache for the past, but that's fine, I think.
Are you tired yet? I am. I am tired.
And now we're here. Stuck in this skin we were given and just trying to get used to it.
All those gold leaves.
All my love,
Addy
Disclaimer: I wrote this as it came to me. It's a bit of a wreck. Don't be surprised if half of it is gone because I suddenly find the shape of what I am trying to write at some later date.
Do you ever think that maybe, if you could predict the future, things might be a little better? Not change the future or live the future before it was time, just know (or even just have a vague idea of) what was coming next, and then things might not be so scary?
But you can't, can you?
You fall in love with people that you didn't know you were going to fall in love with and that's scary, huh. And you get heartache and you realize what you are and are not cut out for and it's all very sudden, isn't it?
Maybe if you knew what was coming, you could emotionally prepare yourself for the experience, rather than have it thrown upon you all of a sudden and feel shakey and scared.
But God or fate or life or whatever hasn't given us that, has He/it/it/whatever? So one moment you think you know the world and understand everyone and everything and then someone turns to you and drops a metaphorical bomb on your metaphorical head-world and you have no idea how to send up those barriers that will keep you safe.
Maybe the idea is that we aren't supposed to have barriers. Maybe we're supposed to get "gargled and spanked and spit out by God" and teach ourselves to deal with it.
Because maybe -- just maybe; I'm not claiming to know anything here -- that's the meaning of life. Maybe the bombs and the sky-writers are the flat-out meaning of life. Maybe the magic, the meaning, the point, is that we don't know anything at all and there's nothing we can do about that.
I'll be the first one to admit that I'm scared because sometimes the bombs look so pretty when they're falling and they're painted so nicely and read things like, "Love!" or "Money!" or "I'm going to kiss you!" or "New pants!" and I get all excited and then they hit and it just hurts my neck.
But maybe we should stop trying. Maybe we should stop living for other people. Maybe we should dance a little slower and make this moment last a little longer, because maybe it's all we have, because the next bomb, the next war, the next battle, the next earthquake is going to hit any moment now, but we're not going to let it hit us in this moment, because this moment is ours.
And you never know. You don't know about tomorrow or next week or next month, let alone next birthday or next Christmas or ten years from now. Worst case scenario, you won't make it to tomorrow or next week or next month.
Maybe there's only one dimension.
Living in the moment could be the meaning of life.
I don't know; don't look at me.
All my love,
Addy
"Why can't I have a simple life?"
-my friend, on... everything.
"Amen."
-me, in regards to a comment made regarding simplicity in life.
I am nothing if not an impressive liar, especially when it comes to lying to myself. But lately, I can't decide if my skills are diminishing or the lies themselves are getting a little too large to swallow.
I'm not over it. I'm not over boys that I loved forever ago or boys I loved last week. I'm not over boys I loved yesterday morning. I'm not over things people said to me back in school. I'm not over thinking sad stuff and I'm not over those strangers who arrived at my house. I'm not over getting hurt by people who weren't supposed to do just that. Hurt me, I mean. You probably know how that goes.
I'm not over being lonely. That's an oxymoron, almost. You can't just be over loneliness. It can leave for just a moment, but loneliness isn't an acute disease. For two moments, people can sit with you and hold you and allow your heartbeats to write songs, but it always ends the same way. You get stuck again.
I get stuck again. I'm not over loneliness, because not only is it an oxymoron, it's a paradox.
As soon as you get un-lonely, you get lonely all over again and you get it even worse than you had it before because then you start to remember when you weren't lonely and how perfect that was and how it felt to toss boulders into a pond with a person who knew you long before everyone else did, but it doesn't really matter, does it? Because even if it's only for a moment or even by accident or by default, the truth is this: Everyone leaves you in the end.
"The Mourning Paper"
All my love,
Addy
My mom: Put on theses gloves while you paint.
Me: I can't. Gloves give me anxiety.
My mom: Why?
Me: Because they encapsulate my hands.
Time zones keep the sun up.
All my love,
Addy
This morning I knew what I was doing. And I knew what I wanted and who I wanted and everything was lovely.
And then everything got mega-confusing and now there isn't enough air to breathe and my knees are all weak and my body feels all full of fluids and I am so confused and I don't know what to do.
I'm blaming this quasi-relationship on those hands of his and I'm blaming its quasi-downfall on another pair of hands. They're both so beautiful and they leave me breathless and I end up doing reckless things without thinking because of those hands.
It's hard to explain, really.
Do you think either of them even noticed my eyelashes? The actual boys themselves, I mean. Not the hands.
Any number to the power of zero is one.
All my love,
Addy
And then it is July and I am so worried because I've been stuck in this crevice for so long with nothing to write about and before I know it it'll be August and I'll be blowing out birthday candles and headed back to high school again for "Guess and Hope a Lot That Things Work Out Semi-Nicely" round two and then all of a sudden I'll be wearing a cap and gown and then wandering the streets of Manhattan and living off of goat pops alone because I'm simply trying to pay my tuition and hopefully dating someone tall and skinny and cultured (fingers crossed) and then we'll have kids and our kids will have kids and out of nowhere I'll have gray hair and wrinkles everywhere and I'll maybe even consider Botox for a split second, and I'll wake up one morning and realize I can't see without my glasses or move without my walker and then the next morning, I simply won't wake up at all.
I am praying for quality in my motions. When I realize I can't see or walk, I don't want to realize I never did anything with myself, too.
I can't breathe easy, either.
All my love,
Addy
P.S. On a lighter note, remember this shirt? Guess which lucky girl found it in a Park City coffee shop yesterday called "Atticus" (As in, "Finch"): me. That's who.
Here's the problem:
One night of this weekend I was downloading entire musicals and singing obnoxiously loud. The next: I was experiencing the most romantic thing that has happened in my whole entire real life thus far. And guess what?
I liked the former a whole lot more.
In fact, the latter left me in a small anxiety fit.
Tell me. Tell me what's wrong with me.
"Do you know the number one reason behind all bad hair decisions? Love."
All my love,
Addy
