Log in

No account? Create an account
I do not agree entirely. Which is to say I do not exactly disagree. [entries|friends|calendar]
I'm Amy.

Life is a matter of a miracle that is collected over time by moments flabbergasted to be in each other's presence. The world is an exam to see if we can rise into the direct experiences. Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it. Matter is here as a test for our curiosity. Doubt is here as an exam for our vitality.
[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

closure? via anthony. [Saturday. October 3rd, 2009 @ 03:37pm]

"A good writer once wrote, ‘the best way to forget a woman is to turn her into a novel.’ Well, I’m not much of a writer, nor an advice taker, but I figure now is as good a-time as any to change. This story isn’t necessarily a good one, but I feel it is a necessary one. More of an anecdote, really - a simple one, too. Boy meets a girl, girl says one thing, boy says another, then before he knows it, he wants to spend the rest of his life living that perfect day. The sun kisses the horizon, the boy kisses the girl and their faiths are sealed with the greeting of their lips, in this case, on a perhaps-cliche, yet also picturesque busy freeway. It was the perfect storm; neither expected a thing and yet, walking hand-in-hand down the boulevard, synapses fired, the heart ignited and the embers turned to flames.

The rest of the tale was played by the book, as falling in love is always a stereotype. Sure, one could fight it and deny it, but there’s an outside observer wouldn’t think twice to identify a victim of helpless lust and enthrallment. I was careless, stupid and absolutely bulletproof. The final sum of a great cosmic chance had given me a hope, a glimpse of light in an otherwise cruel and unsympathetic darkness. Naturally, the fucking was fantastic, as in, fantastic fucking. The conversation - sharp and never a bore. Even the same old bottle of cheap merlot had a new tingle to it. In all sense of the word, the love was simply intoxicating. Like a victim of a closed-garage, diesel-powered carbon monoxide poisoning, there was I - hapless, yuppy, fucking clueless.

Alas, the time passes, the seasons change, the words lose their meaning and a million unquantifiable factors gather until the proverbial dam collapses. Love gives a false hope, an illusion, that you are strong, that you’re forever entangled in euphoria and pleasantries. It’s not hard to see why - hundreds of era of human evolution have carved the brain into your own personal drug dealer, handing out a bit of dopamine here, a drip of neropinephrine there. Little rewards for good behavior on account of protecting your genetic heritage and passing on your worthless little seed of life. It’s almost depressing looking at this whole ordeal as if it were a middle school science fair experiment. Now, just mix in the oxycotin here and sprinkle a bit of endorphins there, and presto - a bond stronger than any superglue is formed in our primitive brains.

However, I digress. This story isn’t for the next medical journal, but rather for my own keepsake and memory, so it must be told with heart and romance. Ideally, I had found my female counter-part. Humbly speaking, she was attractive to the opposite sex and she knew it, though had remained pretty modest of the fact. She was wise, at least for her age. Not a sage or mystic or anything, but, unlike most sheep carrying on their careless lives, she had a general understanding - an awareness - of the fragility of life, of human relationship, or personal integrity. She was a classic example of twenty-first century youth, a young American girl with piercing eyes, yet soft skin. Big dreams, but small hopes. All she needed was a push in the right direction and I did just that.

I dug my own grave. The girl burst open her shell, kicking and screaming. Real shit happened. We lived. We laughed until our sides ached and we cried until our eyes couldn’t see anymore when we parted. We didn’t have time for games that people play and we didn’t put on masks that people wear. We were in plain site, no camouflage, no dusk to hide us from each other, nor from ourselves. We were totally vulnerable, a nakedness I had not felt in some time and somehow felt unprecedented. It was beautiful.

That time is gone now, obviously. If it weren’t, this memoir wouldn’t exist and another ramblings of a drunk cynic wouldn’t add another tally mark to those who have fallen to the toils and agonies of break up. Was I too good, was I not good enough, was I merely not what was desired - a hundred rhetorical questions will haunt me until the day I am gone, all unanswerable. They are unimportant. Logic is trivial in this tale. As the green leaves turn golden, then rot to brown, another chapter in my life closes. Harsh lessons are learned and restless nights are had. In the end, all that matters is that neither of us was afraid to live."

Reading that broke my heart. What was I thinking? I never know if I make the right choices. I ache a lot. Maybe he was the right choice for me... fuck.
remembering is so much more a psychotic activity than forgetting (4)

[Sunday. December 14th, 2003 @ 06:01am]
An assumption develops that you cannot understand life, and live life simultaneously. I do not agree entirely, which is to say I do not exactly disagree. I would say that life understood, is life lived. But the paradoxes bug me, and I can learn to love and make love... to the paradoxes that bug me. And on really romantic evenings of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion. Before you drift off, don't forget. Which is to say, remember, because...
remembering is so much more a psychotic activity than forgetting (202)

[ viewing | most recent entries ]