Tuesday, January 31, 2012


The other night, I took Oliver out for a walk and, as the streetlights danced off the wet pavement, I thought about how at peace I was. Alone with the hound at four in the morning, I didn't feel weighted down by bills, emotions, what-ifs or any of the other things that try to hold me back on a day-to-day basis. As we walked, I found my eyes straying up to the sky which was riddled with stars that formed constellations I pretended to know, like Ursa Major and Minor and Orion. As I tried to pluck Polaris out from the tiny flecks, I also searched for the moon.

The last couple of mornings (or what most people would call night), I hadn't been able to find it. This morning wasn't an exception and, as I came up empty once again, I laughed because I imagined we were playing an intergalactic game of hide and go seek.

Where in the vast night sky could the moon possibly be hiding?

And I pictured the moon tip-toeing out of the Milky Way into another galaxy, perhaps our sister galaxy Andromeda, and crouching down behind a sofa. The thought amused me, because it's silly, juvenile even, except underneath the seemingly simplistic surface there was another question begging to be asked.

What exactly is out there?

In Stephen Hawking's A Briefer History of Time, it talks about the Universe and how it is ever-expanding. It presents the ideas of quantum mechanics, string theory and, the hugely debated, Big Bang Theory. Hugely debated, because, if true, it discounts religious beliefs of how the world was created, namely God throwing our existence together in only seven days. People the world over cling to the word 'theory', insisting it is not fact.

Well, of course it isn't fact. At this point, we can only hypothesize and theorize over how the Universe began, since we cannot travel back in time to witness it for ourselves. Unless they've developed a time machine and have been holding it secret, which I wouldn't be surprised over. Can you imagine the mess we'd create if everyone could go back in time? Humans can be so silly, especially when we believe things would be better if we could change our past. When will we learn it's all about the present?

The thing is, the Big Bang is a well-tested scientific theory, widely accepted because it is the most accurate, and comprehensive, explanation for the phenomenas astronomers have observed. But this blog isn't about the Big Bang. Staring up at the sky, in search of the luminous moon that was playing shy, I contemplated the idea of infinity.

For the universe to keep growing, it must be infinite, as it has no end. The idea of being boundless is something humans have a hard time grasping. Often when people hear about the hundred billion galaxies that comprise the Universe they feel suffocated by the idea of how massive it is. To put it plainly, the vast majority of us have a hard time simply comprehending size of universe, let alone all that it holds.

Not long ago, I posted a blog about feeling insignificant, especially when looking up at the night sky and seeing how vast, and perfect, it is. Now, feeling infinitesimal shouldn't hollow you out or make you sad. This smallness has never left me feeling empty or forgotten, but rather reassured that something else is going on. Something bigger than me, and perhaps bigger than the Universe itself.

I listened to the wind rustling the trees, allowing the sound to whisper through my body, and I questioned what existed beyond. You see, I thought about the Big Bang and kept wondering, what was before? And, as the Universe expands, where is it expanding to? Will it eventually hit a wall? If so, what's on the other side of that wall? Can there be nothing? And if there can, is nothing gradually being eaten up by our solar system?

Of course, these questions are mind-boggling, and not ones you can find answers to in text books or online. Limitlessness can cause people to panic, especially since we are raised to believe that we are limited. We are taught the circle of life in which we are born, exist for a spell and then we die. As we age, we are constantly confronted by thoughts of our own mortality and it is ingrained in us to fear death, to fear the end.

But what if there is no end? What if our souls are like the universe? Ever-expanding and infinite.

What then? Would fear cease to exist?

Then, as Oliver pulled on the leash, eager to get back into the warmth of his bed, I wondered how my thoughts transitioned from the moon hiding behind a couch to what exists beyond our universe and inside us all. And people wonder why I don't do drugs.

My thoughts are surreal enough on their own.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Beast Of Burden

On Wednesday, I told my friend, via the MSN, that I felt forlorn.

She said, "Great word, not so great feeling."

Boy, did she ever hit the nail on the head with that statement. I've never felt this particular emotion before. Mostly because I've always been a simple girl, with an emotional range of a mop. I like to keep my feelings easy and basic, you know, ones I understand and have experienced before. Sad, Happy, Lusty, and Angry. The ones I know how to navigate my way out from under.

It's hard to explain the crushing, nearly suffocating, effect being forlorn can have. I felt hollowed out. Empty. It was hard to breathe, think, and, rather horribly, hard to push it away. The truth is, no matter how hard you try to stay in the flow, on your path, and at ease, sometimes the chemicals in your head pair up with the contents of your heart and couple with your ever-turning brain in order to jerk you around. Think of it like a test. One I clearly failed. My mantra is not working.

It's high school all over again, but this time the only thing at stake is your general health, happiness and well-being. No pressure.

Here's the thing, I had a shite week. It started with a doctor's appointment. You know when they say they will only call if they find something wrong? Imagine my surprise when they actually called. Like the pap smear and breast examine isn't bad enough. I don't like going to the doctor as it is, let alone being told I need to complete a handful of tests just so we can 'rule a few things out'.

How...reassuring. (I'm making one of those faces that says I am completely not reassured at all.)

This really kicked off the forlorn feeling because, what do people need when they are scared and unsure and wandering around the cold, lonely city streets being drenched with rain? (Alright, that last part was a bit of artistic expression. I did not wander around in a torrential downpour sobbing or anything. Maybe next week.) In those moments of complete 'what-the-hell-is-going-on'edness, we need love, understanding and someone to take our hand and tell us everything will be okay, even if they don't know whether it will or not.

Not all that long ago, I realized I was only human. I know, it shocked me too. With being human, certain things are unavoidable, like emotions. We all have needs. I used to think love wasn't a necessity, but I was wrong. It is. We need to love and be loved, to be happy. And, while I've done an excellent job at loving myself (pseudo-sexual pun intended) and I do know others love me, there is a physical side we crave.

To put it simply. I needed a fucking hug.

Yes, I feel wimpy saying it. But it's the truth. And putting my arms around myself and giving a little squeeze is...well, let's just be honest here, it's bloody pathetic. No beating around that bush. Sometimes we need other people to hold us. I bet this can tie in with nuturing and mothers and growing up and all that crap. I'm not going to tie it in, though. See, I do spare you!

This is all a little hard for me to admit, because I never needed that reassurance before. Or maybe I did, but my head was clouded with cynicism, sarcasm and an intense need to not need. Wow. If that's not confusing, I don't know what is.

It's always good to be able to distinguish needs and wants. And I did NEED a hug. I needed a physical connection with someone. And not just anyone. Someone specific. Someone I love and who loves me in return. Instead, I sat at my desk feeling empty and lost and, not to be depressing or anything, a little broken. You see, there is nothing worse than wanting or needing something you cannot have. Whether you can't have it because of timing, distance, stubbornness or simply because you're stuck at work.

Though, I wonder what my co-workers' faces would have looked like if I turned to them and asked them for a hug. That's going to amuse me all day now.

This blog post isn't about my need for a hug! What a dippy thing to wander off and babble about. Could someone please put me out of my misery? Or, at the very least, point me in the right direction? I'm like a spinning top. Where I'll stop, no one knows!

What this blog is actually about is being a beast of burden. The Rolling Stones have a song of this title. It's one of my favourites. In my heart, it's what I want to be. I don't want to burden other people with my crap. Whether it's on Facebook, my blog, in my vlogs, or in telephone conversations.

Above all, I don't want to burden the ones I love.

My ex used to have this innate ability to project his emotions onto me. Through complaining and storming around, he was able to shift my mood. Now, I've always been one of those people who believes we are in control of our own emotions, but it's ridiculous not to acknowledge the fact that what others do, say, and think can, and does, affect our own moods. I promised myself I'd never do this to other people. Unfortunately, I'm a big, fat failure.

Because I did this like two hours ago to someone I care about.

There's no way he could have known about my week or the head space I found myself in. How would he? And as soon as I hit the stupid send button, I knew I'd made a mistake. I'd taken out my hurt, disappointment and forlornness on him. And  I shouldn't have. I made a decision a long time ago to try and only give him nice, positive energy and sweet words. In one knee-jerk reaction, I kiboshed the whole thing. So, I slipped. I messed up.

A dude on Facebook changed his status a couple days ago to read: "We should face our problems, not facebook them." And I thought, right on, brother. (Obviously, I was channeling Foxy Brown at this point of the day)

While we all recognize the importance of venting or talking things out, there is a proper and healthy way to go about doing it. Status updates, forum posts, huffy telephone calls or inundating someone over coffee about how terrible life is are NOT the healthy and proper ways to go about doing this.

Neither is slamming someone with an emotionally retarded email out of the blue. (Oops)

The thing is, my feelings are MY feelings. Not my friends', family's, or lover's. They are not the responsibility for anyone else to fix. They are my burden. And I do not want them to be anyone else's burden. In the end, I can only apologize and try not to be any one's beast of burden again.

Oh, but I still need a hug.

Friday, January 27, 2012

Death To Panties

I don't often post my vlogs here, but this one seemed nice and light for a Friday.


Monday, January 23, 2012

If Wishes Were Fishes

I wish my mind would catch up with my heart.

I wish things worked out more often than not. I wish people had more patience. In fact, I wish I had more patience. I wish my heart forgave easier and my mind didn't over-think things. I wish I could just let things be, leave them alone, stop poking at them. I wish I never doubted or worried or feared in the past, and I really wish I could stop doing it now.  I wish the lightness never faltered. I wish the darkness never returns. I wish happiness came easily. Also...

I wish you saw yourself like I do.

I wish you understood what I'm trying to say. And the things I feel and what I think and and how important you are. I wish I could sit back and watch it unfold like you do. I wish I knew, having the knowledge of simply knowing would lift the weight holding me back. I wish we found each other sooner. I wish for the ability to articulate myself, all of myself, and do it in a way that won't scare you. I wish I wasn't so romantic. I wish the waiting didn't hurt and the hurt didn't sidetrack me. I wish I saw myself the way you do. I wish you didn't feel so far away. I wish our hands could meet, our fingers touch, our bodies melt into one.

Actually, I wish the ocean wasn't so damn big.

I wish I was shorter, not a lot, just a little. I wish my hands didn't hurt. I wish I didn't let the sinking feeling of disappointment creep up at odd times, like when I'm lying in bed at night and thinking about the universe. I wish I was smarter, clever, and witty. I wish I laughed more during the hard times. I wish I didn't scowl so much through my twenties, then I wouldn't look so old now. I wish my eyes opened sooner. And I wish I didn't stray so far from the path I was supposed to be on. I wish I never lost sight of who I was. I wish my flaws didn't feel so suffocating. I wish I slept more, and dreamed more, as well. And I wish...

Well, I wish I wasn't so hard on myself.

I wish everyone spread love. I wish people released their hate instead of holding onto it like a life preserver. I wish people were more positive and less negative, including myself. I wish we all recycled. I wish more people loved themselves, especially the people I see everyday. I wish the world recognized the importance of inner beauty. I wish we got what we need, not necessarily what we want. I wish it rained more, big droplets, mad droplets. I wish it wasn't so cold, not the weather, but mankind. I wish to leave an imprint behind, on someone, on something.

I wish everyone the best.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Bad Head Space

A couple days ago, I was in a terrible head space. I know that's shocking, since I'm a regular dose of serotonin due to my sunny disposition, but it's the truth. Bad days come and, if we're lucky, bad days pack their bags and get out of dodge, hopefully without over-staying their welcome. If a bad day turns into a bad week it can get to be a bit daunting.

Recently, I've been thinking about being sad. Not me being sad, let me clarify, but the world being sad. Have you noticed how it's become taboo to be sad? No one is sad anymore. Everyone is depressed. I think the line between being sad and depressed isn't so fine. And I also think a lot of people are battling 'depression', when in reality they are simply battling discontentment, melancholy and general disappointment with the way their lives turned out. Not everything needs a dose of Prozac or Zoloft.

That said, I am, not in the slightest bit, looking down on people who are depressed. My concern really lies with people being misdiagnosed. A couple years ago, I went to the doctor and found out I'd gained close to forty pounds. Yikes! Imagine my surprise. I started crying, because no one wants to be a big, fat fatty. Especially when they had no idea. I know some people, mostly men, will question how I gained forty pounds (eighteen kilograms or almost three stone, depending on your country) without even knowing it. Well, I wasn't paying attention. To my body, head or heart, but that's a different blog for another time, isn't it?

My doctor asked if I was depressed. I stopped and thought about it. To be blunt, I didn't know! She asked me a few questions. Are you sad a lot? Do you like to go out? Do you still talk to your friends? How often do you cry? And I answered. Yes. No. No. Often. Then she asked if I thought antidepressants would help. I recoiled at the thought. No, really, I physically cringed. And here's why: I've never done any sort of drug. Not one. I balk at taking an Advil when a headache sets in.

And then I thought, why is she offering me this? I mean, was I unhappy? Yes, but I certainly didn't need pills to make it better. What I needed was a swift kick in the arse! Someone to say, wake the hell up and get your crap together. Of course, it took me almost a year more to actually pull myself out of the rut I was in.

The whole experience made me wonder how often 'unhappy' people were being diagnosed as 'depressed', and what the difference exactly was. I'd love to go into it, but this blog isn't actually about depression or being unhappy. In fact, I don't even know how I ended up on that tangent.

Regardless, the other day I was in a bad head space. And the worst part, it wasn't even mine! I'd contracted it from a friend. Actually, not even a friend. A friend of a friend, which actually makes me twice as irate, because not only did I allow myself to let someone else's mood affect me, but I didn't even know the person all that well.
The truth is, that day I woke up in a most glorious mood. No, really. It was amazing. To the point where birds flew in my open window and helped me get dressed. The bastards left before sweeping up, though. There was a bounce in my step, my hair was shiny, I was having a good ass day, meaning my ass looked surprising well in my undies, which doesn't happen all that often, and the weekend was approaching. Nothing could derail me.

Well, nothing except a fat mouthed friend of a friend who insisted on spreading her sourpuss ways to the world. I just happened to be her first victim. Recently, she'd gone through a break-up. An ugly break-up. I don't remember all the details, but apparently he was a lying, cheating scumbag from hell, or something like that. Since she knew I went through a break up not too long ago. she decided to contact me and ask when I knew I was ready to date again. The truth is, her message was ridiculously long and detailed and left me feeling a bit off. Of course, I'm wasn't going to let her observations that 'all men are assholes' and 'there's no such thing as real love' damper my mood, so I sluffed them off.

Not wanting to be rude, I did reply.

First, I articulated to her that it takes a different amount of time for everyone to mend their relationship wounds and, even with copious amounts of polysporin and band-aids, we can still come out with scars. Also, due to the harsh circumstances of her own break-up (and the anger wafting off her email), I suggested she work on her hurt a bit longer. I said, ideally, she wants to be as open to love as possible and, not only that,  learn how to love herself, because her thinking 'her fat ass' and 'shitty job' is going to prevent her from snagging a man is toxic. This chick simply wasn't ready. And if she went forth into the dating world with her horns up and her nostrils flaring it was only going to end badly.

For some reason my email further set her off, which wasn't my intention.

"What," she said. "Let me guess, you're in love. LOL! Fucking delusional."

First off, she used 'lol' which is one of my biggest pet peeves. Second, who was this woman to call me delusional. So, then I told her, that in fact I am in love. Not only with myself, who I've been having an intense relationship with for the last year or so, but someone else, who means the world, stars, and moon to me. I didn't go into detail, because I'm a fairly private person, but my general happiness, healthy dose of optimism and good mood seemed to push her over the edge.

What she sent me back was, to say the least, rude. Not only did she indicate I was stupid for feeling affection for someone, but she made it clear that if her relationship with her ex couldn't work out none of them could. To only further ice the cake, she stressed how I'm going to be devastated when it doesn't work out for me. Something about how loving myself isn't going to keep me warm at night and that, essentially, I am still alone. Interestingly enough, she worded everything in a 'just trying to help you' manner. She even threw in an 'I don't want to see you get hurt again' and a 'try to remain guarded, you don't want to go through what I went through'.

I'm ashamed to say her jaded views sparked something in me. Her words stoked my cynical fires and, much to my chagrin, I found myself knee deep in a bad head space. The irony is, after the fact, I realized it was her pain speaking. She was hurt and lost and in search of sympathy. I bet she even knew she wasn't ready to date, she just wanted someone to tell her she was, so she could go out and try to get over her ex. But a new person doesn't heal you. They can help, but essentially, you have to heal yourself, especially if you ever plan on giving yourself to someone again.

This whole bad head space day made me think of the Tom Petty song "Don't Do Me Like That" off of the album Damn The Torpedoes. Basically, this guy's friend tells him a woman hurt his pride, told him that she loved him, then turned around and let him go. Then his friend tells him to watch his step or he's going to get hurt himself, that someone is going to tell him lies, cut him down to size. And then Tom Petty is all, "Don't do me like that, baby. Don't do me like that!"

The reality is, it isn't just Tom Petty and me who are susceptible to people's negativity and pessimism. We all are. And it's hard to deflect it. But, for the betterment of our souls, we need to try as hard as possible not to let other people drag us down. My problem is that I allow myself to absorb the feelings of those people around me, not to mention what's going on in the world, and it affects, more than I'm willing to admit. Because I really don't want revert back to my cynical, sarcastic, grumpy self, I wanted to come up with ways to clear my head.

That's when I read my friend Jane's blog on meditation. If you don't follow this blog, you should. Not only because Jane is smart, sexy and sensational, but because she writes about unique things. This post of hers was informative, interesting and, above everything else, encouraging. I've always been interested in meditating, but every time I try, my mind cartwheels off in a hundred different directions. I blame my over-active imagination and my attention deficit. These are excuses. The reality is, whenever I have tried to clear my head in the past, I've found it hard to confront who I am, which is why my mind kept turning. I'm not afraid of that now, because I love myself and there is nothing scary about looking inward.

After reading a bundle of articles on the subject, I asked another friend, one of the male sex, if he ever meditated. Apparently, according to him, you don't need to sit on a pillow, burn incense and chant. One can reach a meditative state a number of different ways. This was nice to hear, reassuring. Because incense gives me a migraine. He also mentioned something about a mantra.

And this sort of struck a chord with me. What I needed was something I could say to myself that would allow me pull out of my bad head space and let me release other people's anger, sadness and ridiculous behaviours, but to do so with love and understanding. The idea of a mantra is to keep you in the flow and on the right path. And I also wanted something that would remind me not to spread my own pain to others.

After some humming and hawing, I came up with something rather epic. I'm not going to tell you what the mantra I selected is, because it's personal, but rest assured, I have all our best interest at heart. I gave it a go this morning when I woke up at four and really didn't want to get going. It worked.

Now, all I need to do is convince everyone else to have their own mantras. Oh, and for us not to pass our bad moods on to other people. So, while my friend of a friend threw me off my groove, and that just wasn't cool, I take full responsibility for allowing her to do so. If only I had my mantra before this whole thing happened. I might have been spared my very bad head space.

Keep calm and say your mantra.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012


I'm flawed.

I can tell by the silence no one is shocked by this.

This is a post about writing. It might not appear to be one until the end. If you stick with me, I'll give you a cookie. Or a cupcake. Mmmm...cupcakes.

Alright, back to the subject at hand. The truth is, I'm not the only flawed one in this room. We all are. Hopefully you aren't shocked by that statement. If you are, you might want to rest that big head of yours. Go on, I'll wait for you.

In reality, the idea of a 'perfect' person is so ridiculous. It irritates me when you hear someone say, "Oh, he's perfect." Perfect? I think not.

First off, we're human, which means we make mistakes. Those mistakes make us flawed. Hence, we are not perfect. Also, we live in a world where we have to be flawed to survive. That might sound backwards, but it's true. In this day and age, we are encouraged to acquire certain flawish (not a word!) characteristics, such as ruthlessness, arrogance, defensiveness, and a vast array of other not-so-perfect traits.  Just because we are encouraged, doesn't mean we should embrace them, though.

Unlike a lot of people, I know what my flaws are.

And I'm not talking about my physical flaws, like the bumps around my eyes (thank you, ex-boyfriend, for pointing those out and giving me something else to be self-conscious about), the stretch marks on my hips, the scar on my forehead, or my soft little belly. No. The truth is, while I consider those flaws, someone else might not. Actually, someone, somewhere might actually think those things are *gasp* endearing.

No, I'm talking about my character flaws. And there are many. The worst one is my trust issues. It takes me a long time to trust someone, and even then I don't know how deep that trust actually runs. This stems from believing that no matter what, people are going to disappoint me, and most likely double cross me. And this isn't the wild, wild, West, you know. I should be able to trust my friends and family and lovers without worrying about when, and how, they're going to betray me. (Don't dwell on the fact that 'lovers' is plural. It was for artistic merit. I only have one lover.) The point is, I'm not a Russian spy who has people targeting me for information. So, why the heck do I insist on throwing up my guard and keeping people at arm's distance?

It's exhausting being damaged.

All jokes aside, I'm not as bad as I used to be. I've learned to identify when I'm starting to shut people out, and most importantly why. Also, I've managed to learn the difference between someone hurting me on purpose and not. It all comes down to intentions. If someone didn't mean to hurt you or betray your trust, that's when forgiveness comes into play.

Which is another one of my flaws. I always say I forgive, but I never forget. And the truth is, I don't really forgive all that often. I blame my impeccable memory. Sometimes I wish it wasn't so good. It's like I can trace back everything someone has ever said and done and pick it apart until I convince myself they aren't worth my time. So not fair.

Oh, I guess I'm not fair either. :-/

Anyways, this blog isn't about my flaws. Well, not completely. I'm giving you examples of my issues, so that you can see I'm not perfect. Once again, not breaking news to anyone.

Now, how does being aware of your flaws improve your writing?

Once I pick up a book, there are very few reason why I will put it down again. The biggest one is believable characters. I loathe characters that are seemingly 'perfect'. Unrealistic women running a marathon with perfect hair and skin make me want to scream. Men who do and say everything right make me want to break expensive antiques. Teenagers who hate their parents for no good reason or the reverse, kids who are completely well adjusted. Both make me want to torch something.

Does that seem a bit excessive?

The most important thing you can do for your novel is to craft characters who are real. People want to be able to identify with your MC, not scoff over the ridiculous things they do and say. Especially if they are a perfect, bubbly, blond hair, blue-eyed vixen who works as a high powered lawyer, runs ten miles a day, volunteers at a homeless shelter and saves puppies. I mean, that's just setting people up to hate her! Well, at least me. This could all be personal preference, but I doubt it. Giving your characters flaws, develops them and transforms them from flat to round. If this is something you've never thought about, maybe you should. And not in regard to breasts, thanks!

Whenever I start crafting a character, I sit down and think about what makes them different from me. And, more importantly, what do I have in common with them. The more I have in common, and the things I recognize that are different between us, allows me to craft an authentic cast of players in my story.

First, I start out with the basics.

Do they smoke? Bite their nails? Refuse to wear glasses so they squint all the time? Do they have a catch phrase? Or an obsession with plaid? Tattoos? Piercings? Laugh lines? Can they blow bubbles with their spit? Knit? Sew? Cook?

After I establish the fun, quirky stuff, I delve deeper into their minds. Do they seek parental approval? Are they happy with who they are? Do they even know who they are? Do they struggle with getting close to someone? Are they a hopeless romantic? Low self-esteem? An ego? Do they think inappropriate things are funny? And do they have any toxic thoughts?

These questions will help you to get to know your character. And you need to know him/her thoroughly. Mostly because you're going to write eighty thousand words about them and they better be interesting enough to not only keep your reader interested, but keep you interested as well. After all, if you can't stay interested enough to write the damn book how do you expect a reader to? Or an agent? Or publisher? Or your mother?

Once you figure out the flaws, which I think are one of the most important things to iron out, you will have well-rounded characters who won't let you down. Not only will your dialogue and action be stronger, because they aren't doing or saying something that contradicts key components of who they are, but scenes will develop faster. The book will simply flow.

So, embrace the flaws. Not only your own, but your characters too!

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Random Phone Call From The Rents

My parents just called me. Well, my mom called to let me know my dad is coming down to visit this weekend. Then she handed the phone off to my father so I could have a little bit of a chat with him. I mentioned to my mom that my legs were sore because I did a hundred squats.

When my dad got on the phone, he said, "So, you've been doing squats?"

"Yep," I said.

"Where do you do them? At the gym?"

"No," I told him. "I did them while I was out walking Oliver. Whenever he stops to smell something I do ten or so."

"On the street?" he asked. "What if people think you're pooping on the sidewalk with Oliver?"

I honestly can't stop laughing over this conversation. Sometimes it truly is the little things in life.

Monday, January 2, 2012

What If

What if everyone watched this video and shared it.
I am not American. I am Canadian.

But the people who the American public vote into office affects everyone the world over.

Ron Paul needs our help to spread his word.

And his word is truth.

Sunday, January 1, 2012


It's quarter past one and I've been up since four. I lie down, turn off the light and wait. Exhaustion means I should sleep well, but I don't. I've forgotten something, or so I think. But my teeth are brushed, my face washed, water glass is filled and my heart is light. So, what is it?

This happens so often. I can't remember the last time I slept soundly. I shift positions, from my back to my side and then to my belly. I curl my legs, fluff my pillow. I sigh. 

My breaths deepen and I feel myself slipping.

But the hound is snoring. His paws twitch and he gives off whimpers in his tender puppy dream and I smile. I never mind being roused from slumber for him. I shift away, putting space between his furry body and my bare legs, but as soon as he feels me move, he inches back until he's nestled against me again. He makes me laugh.

It's half past two. And time keeps moving.

The sound of the fan, which is usually so soothing, is too loud in the silence of this night. It doesn't whir or burr as usual. There is a ticking in the white noise, like one of the fans is hitting the wire frame. Tick, tick, tick. It keeps me from falling into my dreams, or nightmares, or the landscapes my imagination is dying to conjure up.

I close my eyes. I open them. I close them. I open them. Time is longer between these movements, but I'm still on the edge and not able to fall over the ledge. The glow from the clock on the stove in the kitchen distracts me. I squint, trying to make out the numbers. After checking my phone and braiding my hair, I turn my pillow over and relish the cool side.

Four eighteen. The night is passing me by.

Somehow, I find myself in a dream. My one true love is laughing over something I've said. Except, I don't know what it was because I've only just arrived in this scene and it feels like it's been going on forever. I ask him what's funny. His reply falls from his lips, but the words are silent and I ask him to repeat himself. He reaches out to take my braid in his hand and pulls me in close. Our bodies touch, his warmth envelopes me and his scent fills my head.

Low in my ear, he whispers, "We will never be."

Even though it's only a dream, my heart shatters and I fall down to my knees in hopes of picking up the pieces. I sit up in the dark, wrenching myself out of my nightmare and simply sit still, listening to the beat of my heart. Leaning back on the bed, I stare up at the darkness and think about how I keep meaning to put stars on the ceiling so I have something to look at when I gaze into the black abyss.

The dream is unshakable.

To erase it, I flip on my stereo and put on some music, soft and low. The first song instantly soothes my wounded heart, subdues my rampant thoughts. It fills me with love. And trails kisses down my spine and strokes the softest parts of my body. The words to the song leave me lighter and remind me of what may be.

It's six forty-two and the sandman takes my hand and leads me into sleep. But my heart keeps playing the song.

One hour and thirty six minutes later, my cat tiptoes over my head, cutting off the comfortable nook I was resting in. When I open my eyes, dawn is lightening the sky. Another day is starting and insomnia has won another round.