The crazy part of the season is how the bleak and stark and brutality of humanity stand hand in hand with hope and joy and miracles under a snow frosted pine along the side of the road. The cars are flying by at a breakneck pace and never even see the tree, let alone the beauty of the bittersweet lying crumpled on the ground like yesterday's news.
But that's how it is. We don't see. We don't want to see. We don't let ourselves see.
We prefer deception. We seek it out and create it if we can't find some pre-made in cellophane wrap at the drug store.
You shake your head, trying to lie through it, believing your own lie. It's always, in the moment, easier to believe that the first shock of pain, of reality, of dealing with something, anything, head on, face first is so utterly terrible, the pain so blinding, so scorching, so deadly that it will undo you and so you walk on past. You trick yourself, create your own illusions to live under.
But the weight of it all will crush you alive. Those illusions, those fakes, take your life, slowly and more fiercely than the pain of facing a demon head on will ever be. And the most brutal part is the demons we chose to ignore, the ones we lie ourselves into believing we've faced and conquered, multiply under the cloak of the illusion. Any time we get brave enough to even take a little peek, we feel it stirring and we know instantly how much worse it will be now.
Time made it harder not easier. It wasn't forgotten. It's not gotten over. It's fermented instead. It became more and more powerful and now is eating you alive.
It's hard to live lies and be a shell. It's hard to play a role and be an actor every minute.
It is terror to take off all the lies, the masks and simply be, scars, sins and all, but it's where the freedom lies. Peace is on the other side of that terror.
Life is simply a flip side coin. One side peace the other side bitterness. Everything has it's opposite and we faulted, flawed, broken humans always, always, seem to pick the wrong side, the harder side, deluding ourselves that this is better, this is easier, this hurts less, it harms fewer people. We drive ourselves into being the martyr with a sick sort of righteousness thinking this is what God would have us do.
Maybe.
But I don't think so. That's not the God I meet when I'm in prayer or in my Bible. it's not. God doesn't want me to be a lie that looks all pretty and perfect and Godly and pulled together according to whatever twisted image I have in my mind of what everyone else is holding me up to or what they hold themselves up to or who they think I should be. It's all a trick mirror and smoke screen.
God's not into false images, including our own.
I think God would rather find me down on my face in the muck of my own life, than prissed up in the front of the church claiming to have lived the words in the Book. I think a greater testimony than words would be to live out my life, let everyone see God come and wipe the slime off my face, look into my eyes and say, I still love you. Come home. Come back. Let's begin again. Here is my grace, take it in place of your brokenness.
Far greater I believe. But what do I know.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
#142
Time to get back on the pony..15 minutes no stops. Here's the story start:
When the winter arrived he was grateful for
the anonymous way it covered over everything. He was grateful for the way silence was like a cloak over everything. Voices were quieter, people faked kindness and he'd take it. Sometimes fake kindness is better than none and he had little in his life,so fake was just fine with him. The winter brought the snow, the ice. It held beauty in it's starkness. It's crystal, like a nature glass works outside his windows. He lived for the fireplace. The crunch of the snow underfoot and the blanket of snow on the ground. It made the brown and barren somehow seem so much better. The cold was like a constant slap in the face and for now it was what he felt he deserved, needed. It was the season. The holiday part of it was a chore, but it too brought out some fake connections. There were suddenly invitations from people that the rest of the year could have cared less if he lived or died. Now suddenly they wanted him to come to their elaborate homes and eat their cocktail meatballs and drink micro brews he'd never heard of and secretly dumped down the bathroom sink because they tasted vaguely of feet and toilets. He was thrilled and dismayed at the odd cards that filled up his mailbox, strangers really, frightening pictures of someone elses savior, a concept he couldn't grasp, just because he didn't want to, didn't care. He was content in his vacuum, not happy, but content. It was a space all his own and undisturbed. It was his. Very little was his. Everyone was always pulling at him, pushing his head under the water, but in the winter, everyone took a break getting caught up in the glamour of the holiday season. Twinkling lights seemed to make every ones mean flicker in and out. I mean not everyone, there were plenty who simply took this opportunity to be even more bitter and drink harder. But those were not his people. He knew they were not. He quietly kept his bitterness to himself, his drinking done in the dark of his own apartment. There was no need to flaunt brokenness. Somehow it was better savored alone. It's a long way down. He knew it well. He'd been down a long, long item. Almost too long. The winter also offered up the possibility. The ice the snow the storms, tragedy was always right there, waiting behind the next slip, the next car skidding across the ice, the next power failure, the next slip on the ice and skull crushing blow to the frozen concrete. He always hoped a little in the winter. Hoped that his end would come and he would not see another spring. Spring held no promise for him. There was no rebirth in his life. It was just repetitive failings and the spring just rubbed it in that he had failed the winter and not allowed it to finish him. Somehow his luck was wrong and he had let himself come out the other side alive. It was not his plan but somehow it never worked out according to his plan. He loved winter. Looked forward to it. But it always thwarted his plans. When the thaws came he obsessively watched the weather to make sure he'd have one last opportunity. He took advantage of every last winter storm. He was always the one out driving when the weather announcers said if you can avoid it in any way, stay off the roads and indoors. That was a code for him to go get in his car in short sleeves, run it until there was no gas left and look for the black ice on the freeway, but every time, it would clear, it would thaw and he would end up at a Mobil or a Kwik Trip filling up and heading home. In the end, he'd be pulling into his garage, then going into the house and taking a shower reserving him self, stealing his resolve knowing that a spring was coming, just right around the corner. There would be a spring. This winter was just around the corner. The fall days were at their ends. The frost was there now in the morning. He was longing for the bleak to arrive. It was his long lost friend, his comfort in the crystal frozen across the window glass. The lost footing on the sidewalk ice a welcome feeling, that lurch, that letting go and hoping for a skull crunching blow on the frozen cement. This was going to be his winter.
When the winter arrived he was grateful for
the anonymous way it covered over everything. He was grateful for the way silence was like a cloak over everything. Voices were quieter, people faked kindness and he'd take it. Sometimes fake kindness is better than none and he had little in his life,so fake was just fine with him. The winter brought the snow, the ice. It held beauty in it's starkness. It's crystal, like a nature glass works outside his windows. He lived for the fireplace. The crunch of the snow underfoot and the blanket of snow on the ground. It made the brown and barren somehow seem so much better. The cold was like a constant slap in the face and for now it was what he felt he deserved, needed. It was the season. The holiday part of it was a chore, but it too brought out some fake connections. There were suddenly invitations from people that the rest of the year could have cared less if he lived or died. Now suddenly they wanted him to come to their elaborate homes and eat their cocktail meatballs and drink micro brews he'd never heard of and secretly dumped down the bathroom sink because they tasted vaguely of feet and toilets. He was thrilled and dismayed at the odd cards that filled up his mailbox, strangers really, frightening pictures of someone elses savior, a concept he couldn't grasp, just because he didn't want to, didn't care. He was content in his vacuum, not happy, but content. It was a space all his own and undisturbed. It was his. Very little was his. Everyone was always pulling at him, pushing his head under the water, but in the winter, everyone took a break getting caught up in the glamour of the holiday season. Twinkling lights seemed to make every ones mean flicker in and out. I mean not everyone, there were plenty who simply took this opportunity to be even more bitter and drink harder. But those were not his people. He knew they were not. He quietly kept his bitterness to himself, his drinking done in the dark of his own apartment. There was no need to flaunt brokenness. Somehow it was better savored alone. It's a long way down. He knew it well. He'd been down a long, long item. Almost too long. The winter also offered up the possibility. The ice the snow the storms, tragedy was always right there, waiting behind the next slip, the next car skidding across the ice, the next power failure, the next slip on the ice and skull crushing blow to the frozen concrete. He always hoped a little in the winter. Hoped that his end would come and he would not see another spring. Spring held no promise for him. There was no rebirth in his life. It was just repetitive failings and the spring just rubbed it in that he had failed the winter and not allowed it to finish him. Somehow his luck was wrong and he had let himself come out the other side alive. It was not his plan but somehow it never worked out according to his plan. He loved winter. Looked forward to it. But it always thwarted his plans. When the thaws came he obsessively watched the weather to make sure he'd have one last opportunity. He took advantage of every last winter storm. He was always the one out driving when the weather announcers said if you can avoid it in any way, stay off the roads and indoors. That was a code for him to go get in his car in short sleeves, run it until there was no gas left and look for the black ice on the freeway, but every time, it would clear, it would thaw and he would end up at a Mobil or a Kwik Trip filling up and heading home. In the end, he'd be pulling into his garage, then going into the house and taking a shower reserving him self, stealing his resolve knowing that a spring was coming, just right around the corner. There would be a spring. This winter was just around the corner. The fall days were at their ends. The frost was there now in the morning. He was longing for the bleak to arrive. It was his long lost friend, his comfort in the crystal frozen across the window glass. The lost footing on the sidewalk ice a welcome feeling, that lurch, that letting go and hoping for a skull crunching blow on the frozen cement. This was going to be his winter.
Friday, August 20, 2010
A Draft, Because I Can
Every once in a while I reveal my ignorance, not intentionally, but because something got my attention and I thought I ought to share it. But here's the thing. It seems, I'm not enough.
I'm not Christian enough or American enough. I can't seem to get myself all jacked up and foaming about injustices and sins. I can't get myself into that whole blood thirsty big bad evil that we have to go out and take care of. I can't get into the God wants this and that, the Bible says this and that. It does. I know. I've read the thing. I know what it says. But, I know, there's no but allowed in Christianity. I guess there is in my version. Let's face it, everyone has their own version of Christianity to a certain extent. I think in a little bit of a way, it's supposed to be like that because we're supposed to have a unique and personal relationship with God.
Personally, God doesn't convict me to be on top of politics and world events and sins of others. He does convict me of my own sin a whole lot, so if you don't mind, you can leave that part out of your condemning comments. I know where I'm wrong, more clearly than you ever will, because I live in my own mind and heart. I know my sins. And so does my God.
I'm not able to get on the band wagon about the expense of this or that, how unfair it is to this people group or that one. I can't seem to rile myself up over the way one thing is eventually going to lead to another via slippery slope. I just think, yup, this is one badly broken world full of messed up people needing a Savior.
It seems to me we spend a lot of our time and energy as Christians and Americans being angry. We claim a lot of tolerance, but we really don't have any, we're all about confrontation, condemnation and criticism. We do a great job of couching it in pretty terms, we're great at manipulating language to make the meanest of things sound nice, but really? We're not all that nice. Even in our churches, we'll take a person who wants to be involved in something or another and run them around and around finally convincing them they're not "gifted" in such and whatever. Again. Read the Bible, know that gifting is real.
We even glamorize our hate. Think of all the movies and TV shows and books about clicks and what in essence boils down to bullying. Then we turn it all around and make it righteous by doing a Bible study about how not to raise "mean girls" or whatever is the fad du jour.
And yes. It's human nature. We're a broken people. Got that. But we're not helping ourselves either. Notice I said here, helping ourselves, not condemning someone else.
Ah, whatever. Cast your stones. I'll bear my ignorance.
I'm not Christian enough or American enough. I can't seem to get myself all jacked up and foaming about injustices and sins. I can't get myself into that whole blood thirsty big bad evil that we have to go out and take care of. I can't get into the God wants this and that, the Bible says this and that. It does. I know. I've read the thing. I know what it says. But, I know, there's no but allowed in Christianity. I guess there is in my version. Let's face it, everyone has their own version of Christianity to a certain extent. I think in a little bit of a way, it's supposed to be like that because we're supposed to have a unique and personal relationship with God.
Personally, God doesn't convict me to be on top of politics and world events and sins of others. He does convict me of my own sin a whole lot, so if you don't mind, you can leave that part out of your condemning comments. I know where I'm wrong, more clearly than you ever will, because I live in my own mind and heart. I know my sins. And so does my God.
I'm not able to get on the band wagon about the expense of this or that, how unfair it is to this people group or that one. I can't seem to rile myself up over the way one thing is eventually going to lead to another via slippery slope. I just think, yup, this is one badly broken world full of messed up people needing a Savior.
It seems to me we spend a lot of our time and energy as Christians and Americans being angry. We claim a lot of tolerance, but we really don't have any, we're all about confrontation, condemnation and criticism. We do a great job of couching it in pretty terms, we're great at manipulating language to make the meanest of things sound nice, but really? We're not all that nice. Even in our churches, we'll take a person who wants to be involved in something or another and run them around and around finally convincing them they're not "gifted" in such and whatever. Again. Read the Bible, know that gifting is real.
We even glamorize our hate. Think of all the movies and TV shows and books about clicks and what in essence boils down to bullying. Then we turn it all around and make it righteous by doing a Bible study about how not to raise "mean girls" or whatever is the fad du jour.
And yes. It's human nature. We're a broken people. Got that. But we're not helping ourselves either. Notice I said here, helping ourselves, not condemning someone else.
Ah, whatever. Cast your stones. I'll bear my ignorance.
Monday, March 8, 2010
#37 15 min of junk today
She stared at the envelope lying on the counter. She knew she should open it. she knew that eventually she would have to open it. The answer was inside.
In a way it felt like the key to her future was inside that envelope. Decided by someone else. Someone who didn't even know her. But isn't that just the way this life runs? Someone outside yourself holds all the power.
She knew it wasn't true. What ever was inside that envelope had no real power over her. It just felt that way.
In her mind she knew that this envelope was just a step on the journey or maybe a stop on the journey, but the journey would continue either way. She wasn't going to stand still and stop living if the answer inside the evelope was no. She had made that promise to herself long ago.
She did know, though, that if the answer was no, there was a lot harder road to travel in front of her than if it said yes.
Yes was power. Yes would open doors to opportunities she had only day dreamed about.
No meant climbing all those hurdles again. Walking that rough road.
Yes meant a step in the right direction. It meant she would be able to stop doubting herself for a few moments. She would be able to start believing that it was a valid dream to chase. Yes meant she could secretly say "I told you so." to all those people in her life that laughed in her face when she got brave enough to reveal her dream.
No was a slap in the face. It was the ringing laughter in her ears of all those long forgotten people who told her she'd never be anything in this life. It was a confirmation of the drudgery of the daily grind she was living and the statement that she really should never be expecting anything but the average out of her own life. No meant that there would be no extraordinary moments in her life. No one would ever marvel at her or her life in a good way. They would marvel, to be sure, but in the same way that a person of wealth marvels at squalor.
Yes would be the kick in the pants to begin the process of full out pursuit of a dream long ago hung out to dry in the summer sun on the back portch, forgotten like old flowers and rusted tractors. Yes would mean a justification of all that time wasted over the years. Yes would mean someday she would be someone.
She knew she was someone with out the dream come true in her life, she did, but still, somewhere in her heart, she really wanted that envelope to hold a yes. She just didn't feel as valid without someone, the world really, validating her. Greedy, she knew it. But that's just the truth of what was in her heart, but at the same time, she wasn't really willing to sell her soul to gain that validation.
In a way it felt like the key to her future was inside that envelope. Decided by someone else. Someone who didn't even know her. But isn't that just the way this life runs? Someone outside yourself holds all the power.
She knew it wasn't true. What ever was inside that envelope had no real power over her. It just felt that way.
In her mind she knew that this envelope was just a step on the journey or maybe a stop on the journey, but the journey would continue either way. She wasn't going to stand still and stop living if the answer inside the evelope was no. She had made that promise to herself long ago.
She did know, though, that if the answer was no, there was a lot harder road to travel in front of her than if it said yes.
Yes was power. Yes would open doors to opportunities she had only day dreamed about.
No meant climbing all those hurdles again. Walking that rough road.
Yes meant a step in the right direction. It meant she would be able to stop doubting herself for a few moments. She would be able to start believing that it was a valid dream to chase. Yes meant she could secretly say "I told you so." to all those people in her life that laughed in her face when she got brave enough to reveal her dream.
No was a slap in the face. It was the ringing laughter in her ears of all those long forgotten people who told her she'd never be anything in this life. It was a confirmation of the drudgery of the daily grind she was living and the statement that she really should never be expecting anything but the average out of her own life. No meant that there would be no extraordinary moments in her life. No one would ever marvel at her or her life in a good way. They would marvel, to be sure, but in the same way that a person of wealth marvels at squalor.
Yes would be the kick in the pants to begin the process of full out pursuit of a dream long ago hung out to dry in the summer sun on the back portch, forgotten like old flowers and rusted tractors. Yes would mean a justification of all that time wasted over the years. Yes would mean someday she would be someone.
She knew she was someone with out the dream come true in her life, she did, but still, somewhere in her heart, she really wanted that envelope to hold a yes. She just didn't feel as valid without someone, the world really, validating her. Greedy, she knew it. But that's just the truth of what was in her heart, but at the same time, she wasn't really willing to sell her soul to gain that validation.
Friday, March 5, 2010
#158
The beginning went like this...in the darkest moment of the night, they heard a noise. At first it was quiet. So quiet they almost didn't recognize it as a noise.
But just as the edge of recognition began the sound increased. Soon it was clear. It was song. Playing over and over. It got louder and louder, but then stopped at a volume just below what they could make out clearly. The melody was foggy and the words slightly muffled, but it was playing over and over. It was clear that it was the same song, repeating.
But why?
And how did it get there?
Now both sitting up in bed, they were silent but looking at each other, looking around the room, trying to decide what to do next, but not wanting to speak for fear the spell would be broken. Because that's what it felt like. Like there in their bed, in the dark of night, they had some how mysteriously been placed under a spell.
Just as Alex was getting ready to get out of the bed and see what exactly was going on, it stopped. Almost as if someone could see him about to place a foot on the floor and than in that instant cutting off the music.
By now, the spell had lifted. Claire was looking around, fear teasing the edges of her eyes. Her mouth was beginning to frown and her breathing was quick. She knew something was wrong. Very wrong.
That song. She'd heard it before. But where? She couldn't quite bring it up in her mind, but she knew she knew it.
Alex was tempted to swing his feet back into bed, pull up the covers and roll over, that is, until he saw Claire's face. Then he realized this was one of those moments. A be the man moment. Just like catching a spider he thought.
"Relax Claire, I'm sure it's nothing. I'll go check it out."
With that he grabbed his jeans from the back of the chair and stepped into them. He walked the two steps across the room to the door while zipping up. He reached out, firmly took the door knob in his hand and gave it a turn. The door swung open easily, just like it always had.
He stepped through into the hall way and quickly shut the door behind him. Snapping on the hall light he was thinking, I'll do a little walk around the main floor, grab a glass of water and head right back to bed.
The hall showed no signs of anything other than their normal everyday life. As he drew near the entry to the kitchen, the hairs on his arms began to stand up. His heart began to pound. His mind tried to keep up with what he was seeing.
But just as the edge of recognition began the sound increased. Soon it was clear. It was song. Playing over and over. It got louder and louder, but then stopped at a volume just below what they could make out clearly. The melody was foggy and the words slightly muffled, but it was playing over and over. It was clear that it was the same song, repeating.
But why?
And how did it get there?
Now both sitting up in bed, they were silent but looking at each other, looking around the room, trying to decide what to do next, but not wanting to speak for fear the spell would be broken. Because that's what it felt like. Like there in their bed, in the dark of night, they had some how mysteriously been placed under a spell.
Just as Alex was getting ready to get out of the bed and see what exactly was going on, it stopped. Almost as if someone could see him about to place a foot on the floor and than in that instant cutting off the music.
By now, the spell had lifted. Claire was looking around, fear teasing the edges of her eyes. Her mouth was beginning to frown and her breathing was quick. She knew something was wrong. Very wrong.
That song. She'd heard it before. But where? She couldn't quite bring it up in her mind, but she knew she knew it.
Alex was tempted to swing his feet back into bed, pull up the covers and roll over, that is, until he saw Claire's face. Then he realized this was one of those moments. A be the man moment. Just like catching a spider he thought.
"Relax Claire, I'm sure it's nothing. I'll go check it out."
With that he grabbed his jeans from the back of the chair and stepped into them. He walked the two steps across the room to the door while zipping up. He reached out, firmly took the door knob in his hand and gave it a turn. The door swung open easily, just like it always had.
He stepped through into the hall way and quickly shut the door behind him. Snapping on the hall light he was thinking, I'll do a little walk around the main floor, grab a glass of water and head right back to bed.
The hall showed no signs of anything other than their normal everyday life. As he drew near the entry to the kitchen, the hairs on his arms began to stand up. His heart began to pound. His mind tried to keep up with what he was seeing.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Lucky #13
She believed in mystery.
Every little while in her life she just expected that something reeking of mystery would happen. About once a months she would begin to search for it in her every day life.
Mystery, after all, kept it from being the dull life that it really was.
After all, there isn't anything interesting about her life at all. She had to create mystery of her own.
Dull is the word of the day when it comes to describing her life. Mom, wife, middle age, middle class, middle America...blah, blah, blah. She may as well be beige like her walls and carpets and cars. She's living in mom jeans and pony tails. Hasn't done her nails in years.
She knows as well as everyone else that there's nothing even interesting about being a wife or being a mom. At least not in her world. There's no one famous or rich. There's no one even noticing if she's coming or going.
Now, she's not a loner or a recluse, but just your typical mom. Going back and forth to the markets to complete the errands. Back and forth to the schools and lessons and practice fields. People notice if she stays away too long or if she somehow calls too much attention to herself, but she's learned her lessons and doesn't play that game anymore.
She's committed to being dull. Playing along and not rocking the boat.
But it gets to her.
The staggering weight of being dull.
So in her mind, when she's traveling down the road, music just a little bit too loud on the car stereo, she's creating a mystery.
Maybe it begins while she's at the gas station buying some cigs, cause you know she doesn't smoke. Good girls don't play like that. Nice girls don't smoke. Especially not her. She would never be "caught" being bad.
But I tell you, there are days she longs for nothing more than to shock the neighbors by standing out on her front porch and lighting up. She wants to take the one long drag and feel it release the stress of the boredom of her days.
She lets her mind wander again. This time someone, a known stranger from her past arrives unexpectedly at her door. She is greeted with a warmth that only exists in her fantasy. No one in real life cherishes her like that.
Again her mind goes off. This time she is free. She doesn't know how it happened, but she is free. She is beautiful. She likes how she looks. She is happy with who she is. The details are fuzzy, but yet the feeling is so very real.
Every little while in her life she just expected that something reeking of mystery would happen. About once a months she would begin to search for it in her every day life.
Mystery, after all, kept it from being the dull life that it really was.
After all, there isn't anything interesting about her life at all. She had to create mystery of her own.
Dull is the word of the day when it comes to describing her life. Mom, wife, middle age, middle class, middle America...blah, blah, blah. She may as well be beige like her walls and carpets and cars. She's living in mom jeans and pony tails. Hasn't done her nails in years.
She knows as well as everyone else that there's nothing even interesting about being a wife or being a mom. At least not in her world. There's no one famous or rich. There's no one even noticing if she's coming or going.
Now, she's not a loner or a recluse, but just your typical mom. Going back and forth to the markets to complete the errands. Back and forth to the schools and lessons and practice fields. People notice if she stays away too long or if she somehow calls too much attention to herself, but she's learned her lessons and doesn't play that game anymore.
She's committed to being dull. Playing along and not rocking the boat.
But it gets to her.
The staggering weight of being dull.
So in her mind, when she's traveling down the road, music just a little bit too loud on the car stereo, she's creating a mystery.
Maybe it begins while she's at the gas station buying some cigs, cause you know she doesn't smoke. Good girls don't play like that. Nice girls don't smoke. Especially not her. She would never be "caught" being bad.
But I tell you, there are days she longs for nothing more than to shock the neighbors by standing out on her front porch and lighting up. She wants to take the one long drag and feel it release the stress of the boredom of her days.
She lets her mind wander again. This time someone, a known stranger from her past arrives unexpectedly at her door. She is greeted with a warmth that only exists in her fantasy. No one in real life cherishes her like that.
Again her mind goes off. This time she is free. She doesn't know how it happened, but she is free. She is beautiful. She likes how she looks. She is happy with who she is. The details are fuzzy, but yet the feeling is so very real.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
#230
But from the moment he put pen to paper he knew he was changing a life, maybe many lives. He knew telling his story, even bit by bit would save someone. It would help.
Maybe it would simply be helping him. Feeding his need for his story to become truth. It was truth after all, his truth, but something about putting black words down on white paper made it seem more permanent.
He also knew telling his story would not be easy. There were parts of the tale he wrote and crossed out, not yet ready for the whole world to see. He, himself, not yet ready to read those words poured out from his heart, spilled on the page. Some things even he cannot look in the eye yet. The day will come, but today is not now.
There were pages that made him shake, pages that brought smiles. There were pages that brought back all the warmth of a beautiful life moment. There were words that tore and ripped like glass on skin. There were pieces of his story that brought tears. Parts that made his hands sweat and shake.
There were words that drove him from the table, from the task. He would be forced to put his pen down and walk away from it all for a while.
Standing at the kitchen counter, pouring a glass in the fading light of spring evenings, he knows it's time.
Time to tell the tale.
He swallows. Holds the glass close to his chest, stares out the window, seeing the past, a memory.
In his mind she is standing before him. She held the key. Or at least part of the key. She was the beginning of the end and the beginning of the beginning.
He loved her as much as he was ever able to do. But it wasn't enough. For either of them.
He knew it long before she did. If he's truly honest, he knew before it even began with her.
They met through mutual friends. They dated. All the standard dates. Dancing. Dinner. Sweet notes. Walks. Movies. Beautiful conversations.
She had gentle but deep eyes. They were always searching. Trying to pull out a part of his soul. The thing was, he wasn't going to give that to her. It wasn't her fault. Or his. He just wasn't going to be giving it over.
Her heart was young, naive. She was falling in love with him. He could see it. He couldn't stop it. She kept falling deeper and deeper.
There had to be a way out. But so much of them, of the couple that was them, wasn't really love, but a true, deep and pure friendship. She was getting it all confused though.
In spite of the signs he thought he was giving, she was falling.
He desperately wanted her to pull the plug. He wanted her to suddenly realize that it wasn't going to work out between them. But he wanted it to be in a way that wouldn't hurt her.
Although he wasn't in love with her, he loved her. She was special in his life, close to him, even though he would not share everything with her. Even though she would wonder what he was holding back.
Between them it came to be too close to truth.
Perhaps he would burn the pages and never tell this tale after all.
Maybe it would simply be helping him. Feeding his need for his story to become truth. It was truth after all, his truth, but something about putting black words down on white paper made it seem more permanent.
He also knew telling his story would not be easy. There were parts of the tale he wrote and crossed out, not yet ready for the whole world to see. He, himself, not yet ready to read those words poured out from his heart, spilled on the page. Some things even he cannot look in the eye yet. The day will come, but today is not now.
There were pages that made him shake, pages that brought smiles. There were pages that brought back all the warmth of a beautiful life moment. There were words that tore and ripped like glass on skin. There were pieces of his story that brought tears. Parts that made his hands sweat and shake.
There were words that drove him from the table, from the task. He would be forced to put his pen down and walk away from it all for a while.
Standing at the kitchen counter, pouring a glass in the fading light of spring evenings, he knows it's time.
Time to tell the tale.
He swallows. Holds the glass close to his chest, stares out the window, seeing the past, a memory.
In his mind she is standing before him. She held the key. Or at least part of the key. She was the beginning of the end and the beginning of the beginning.
He loved her as much as he was ever able to do. But it wasn't enough. For either of them.
He knew it long before she did. If he's truly honest, he knew before it even began with her.
They met through mutual friends. They dated. All the standard dates. Dancing. Dinner. Sweet notes. Walks. Movies. Beautiful conversations.
She had gentle but deep eyes. They were always searching. Trying to pull out a part of his soul. The thing was, he wasn't going to give that to her. It wasn't her fault. Or his. He just wasn't going to be giving it over.
Her heart was young, naive. She was falling in love with him. He could see it. He couldn't stop it. She kept falling deeper and deeper.
There had to be a way out. But so much of them, of the couple that was them, wasn't really love, but a true, deep and pure friendship. She was getting it all confused though.
In spite of the signs he thought he was giving, she was falling.
He desperately wanted her to pull the plug. He wanted her to suddenly realize that it wasn't going to work out between them. But he wanted it to be in a way that wouldn't hurt her.
Although he wasn't in love with her, he loved her. She was special in his life, close to him, even though he would not share everything with her. Even though she would wonder what he was holding back.
Between them it came to be too close to truth.
Perhaps he would burn the pages and never tell this tale after all.
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