But Teacher, I Am Trying (My Best)

This was written to you in pieces.
I kept notes of my thoughts throughout the night and compiled them together after hours of up and down, and sleepless trips to the bathroom.
I suppose there could be different meanings behind this.
For example, snow is falling at the moment.
I like this.
Maybe the snowfall is less of a sign. Or maybe this is only a sign to me.
Maybe I think about the way snow can cause two people to be closer.
Or perhaps the snow is a simple thing and nothing more than happenstance. Or better yet, I suppose we make this simple enough to all this the first snowfall of the New year.

Why complicate things?
Or overcompensate?
Let the process be what the process will be.
But this is what scares me.

Hours later:
I am up and awake and yet, I am still asleep and somewhat unmotivated.
I am uninterested to move or do simple things, like checking the updates on my social media feeds which have come to my phone.

I think it makes sese to “take the phone of the hook” so-to-speak.

Stream of consciousness. . .
This is the way.

I have chosen this method of writing to allow myself the opportunity to unravel without regarding the critics or anyone else who chooses to follow along.
No one can see what I see or touch the way I touch.
I am not better or worse and nor is my love more valuable than anyone else’s.
However, I do believe in fate. I believe in destiny.
I believe in chemistry too.

I believe in the way magnets attract or how dissimilar magnets repel or push us away, despite what we think or feel, or want with all of our hearts.

I was asked, is it crazy to still love someone after they have hurt you.
I was asked if it was crazy to still want someone, even after the bombs exploded and the poison from a loveless abandon from their holocaust, killed everything i the heart.
No.
it’s not crazy.
I don’t care what other people say or think
The heart wants what the heart wants and anything (or anyone else) would only be a substitute or a momentary filler for an unfillable void that never goes away.
Real love never goes away, unless otherwise intended.
And then, in the case where love is reborn or reconstructed, love regards love and thus; no one forgets the touch of warmth or the greatest voice they ever heard.

No one can take away the best of the best and anything or anyone else, would only come in at a distant second, which is far from the perfection we seek.

Not that any of this matters anyway.
Keep this in mind too.

The written word is open to interpretation. And so is art.
So are most things, if we are being honest with each other.
All I can do is let my fingers punch the keys and send this entry out to the Universe.

I send this out with hopes to escape the social atmosphere and with hopes that my thoughts escapes the literary gods and that I dodge the grammar Nazis.
And let’s be honest: There’s a critic born every second.
So, fuck’em.
None of THIS is written for THEM anyway

All I can do is let my thoughts unfold. I have to send this out there, like I’ve been doing for more than a decade now. And next, all I can do is click the publish icon at the top of my page, wrap this up in the figurative bottle of my choosing, and the I can cast this out too the virtual sea and let the tides take it away.

I have seen enough to understand that two people can see the exact same thing and walk away with two different interpretations.
I can say black or white, or red or gray.
And you can curl your upper lip and call me colorblind.
I am still me
And I am still here.
Somehow

No?

I know that I can speak my mind. Or I can spill myself and open my heart, at least, to the best of my ability.
I can do this. No one can stop me.
I can dare the world. I can make all the changes that are within my ability.
No one can stop me.
No one might help me.
But no one can stop me
(from loving you)

I can pour my heart out or I can wear it on my sleeve.
Either way, I can do this all night.
I can fall on my sword, or I can dare the masses and dare the criticisms and face the crucial bullies that hurt me on a daily basis.
And still, I wonder about the soul’s ability to hear one another and be accurate with each other’s intentions.

I can make my intentions as clear as day but if your interpretation does not match my intention, then neither you or I will ever understand one another.
I know this and somehow, you do too.
Your beauty is deceptive to me because I suppose it would be easier to be distant, if could forget how much of a spell you have on me.

All the way down to your toes.
I swear –

I find it both sad and comical because two people can love each other, and they can want one another, and they can dream about each other every night, —and they can say how they are soulmates and know this deep down, —yet their struggles to understand each other keep them apart.

This is sad
and comical
But this is all true and far too real.

I have done this too.
You know?
I have pushed myself away.
I have run from myself and my feelings.
I have put myself in the corner and isolated myself without the insulation I’d need to keep me warm.
I have done this
I have self-destructed and undoubtedly; I have ostracized myself.
I have played the villain and the victim, and to be fair to myself; neither role was satisfying to me.
At least, not in the end.

Our games of mental and emotional warfare are pitiful at best.
I know because if we strip our complaints to the core and be honest; we both know what we want and we both know what it takes.
But pride is a motherfucker and so are the memories of fights and broken promises.
No one is so innocent here.
No one

I have said this before and yes, I am here to say this again.
I am imperfect, afraid, scared, hurt and deeply wounded.

However, no wounds make wounding anyone else acceptable or allowable, —and even our explanations may be understandable and relatable to some extent, but intellect is intellect, rationality is rationality and emotions are emotions.
And sometimes, never the three will meet . . .

Or in other words:
We can understand something and we can understand why we say things that we later regret; and we can hurt people and we can take pain too, but in the end, wrong is wrong and pain from the heart is far more intolerable than the pain from a cut in the flesh.

We leave behind a trail, you and I.
There are people who might have been innocent or simply casual, like the innocent bystanders who caught hell because of our friendly fire.
And there are others who were used.
We used them as a means to have “something” or somehow, we positionally put different people in meaningful positions, just to keep the void from feeling so empty.

And let me ask –
How’s that working for you?
How does it feel to sit in a booth at a diner or a restaurant and look across the tale ad see someone other than the person you’d rather be with?
How’s that?

I do not believe that you love who you say you love.
Nor do I believe that you have loved anyone before.
And yes, I have played the part of the substitute, as well as the one who chose to find some kind of substitution.
I have done this. . .

And what does this make me (aside from an asshole to those who took the poison) and what does this mean, aside from the obvious?
I too have become a casualty of war.
Same as you and same as most of us have been hurt or shot down from a lofty dream, I reiterate:
All is fair in love and war, they say.
However, I respectfully disagree.

None of this is fair to you
or to me
or to anyone else in our life.
(Do you get that?)

I know all about your hostages and perhaps you know about mine.
Well, I told you about mine.
Even if you never told me about yours.
And what does this mean?
What does this make us?

Aside from being weak or afraid and insecure, I think this means we are too worried about the details of being alone.

I think that we are far more relatable than our ideas and our fears lead us to believe.

I think this means we assume lonesomeness is the same as failure.
And so?
What do we do?

Why do we cling to our discomforts so tightly and why do we hold our truths and keep them quiet by rationalizing them with our lies?
It would be a lie that I could love anybody else.
it would be a lie that I could e with someone –
and feel as good or as free or as happy.
I don’t want to be judged.
but I am.
I don’t want to be anywhere else either, except with you
but I’m here
You are there
And all else is out of my control
Except for this right here –
my writing.
my plea for hope
my hope for sanity or my dream to have you

I know what I have done. And I am paying for this.
I suppose I will have to pay for this continuously and consecutively.
I will be paying for this as if to serve my sentence of loneliness in the dungeons of my self-inflicted bouts with resentment and despair.
I was told that I was going to be punished for my sins.
And I am.
But so?

What about you?
What about your fears or your transgressions?
What about the people you placed in your romantic positions, simply because they were nothing more than a port in the storm, —what about them?
And what about you?
How have you been loyal to your truth?
Or how has this been loyal to me?

I am ashamed to admit to my guilt.
But I have to admit to this.
Otherwise I am nothing more than the liar I have been claimed to be.

What does this mean for us?
Or what does this do for anyone else who took shrapnel in the fields of love and warfare?
Nothing . . .
Maybe this produces a reason or an answer.
But reasons are not enough to solve pain when you hoped that someone out there thought you were “enough” but no.
they were just held for ransom as a voluntary hostage in a war that was not theirs
(until it was)

Does this mean we chose to be with other people because it was better than being alone?
We were afraid to connect because what if we fell apart?
What if it was not real or a lie?
Then what
Did you marry someone else because they were safe?
until, they weren’t safe at all . . .

And, if so, does this mean we have settled?
And if we have settled, what did we settle for?
No really . . .
What has this done for us because both you and I have settled for less in the past, —and in the end, all this did was leave us wanting and painfully unsatisfied
(and empty)
So, in our case, does this mean that fear took another prisoner?
And if so, does this mean that we are both equally guilty of hurting ourselves as well hurting each other?
And what about the other people who suffered the wakes of our past??
What does this do for them to find out that they were never who they thought they were?
No . . .
No one else made you sake or as wild or as satisfied.
How does this solve the pain for other people?
They were just words
And we just the truth, even if we lied. . .

I am not one to say that I have it all under control.
No.
I am far from in control.
And maybe I am far from sane too, but I know this much.
I know that crazy people don’t think they’re crazy.
And stupid people don’t think they’re stupid.
Not at all.
They think they’re smart.

I believe the fact that you and I have the understanding or the contrast and the so-called “wisdom to know the difference” infers that there is hope between us.
I think this shows that old dogs can learn new tricks. And while this leopard might not be able to change my spots; I think you need to realize that I love your spots and all that goes with them.
Flaws and faults and all.

I do not believe that love is all about what’s right about a person.
I do not believe or accept that love is painless or pain-free.
On the contrary.
Love is the bravest and most painful emotion known to us.
And I know that somehow, I will end up exactly where I am supposed to be.

You will be where you are supposed to be and the rest of the world will all dance in accordance with the laws of fate and destiny.
And to be as real as the words I send you; there is no avoiding these laws.
So, then?
What does this mean?

I think this means that we can change or improve, or even if nothing else happens; perhaps maybe we can forgive each other for our trespasses and maybe later, we can forgive those who trespass against us.

Hours later –
I continue

Am I crazy?
Of course I am.

I know I am crazy because I have proven the definition of insanity, and I have done this countless times.
This means that I have done the same thing, over and over again, and expected different results.
However, I wish to amend this because I do not know if I expected different results.

I dream about the results I wat. I hope for them, and I pray this time will work or be different.
I do what I can to try for the result which I have desired my entire life.
I do.

I want to be happy.
I want to share a basket of fries with you.
I want to sit close with the only person who makes sense to me.
I want love so much that I compromised my “better self” to find something that is both rare and elusive.

I don’t want to run away anymore.
I want to run towards you and rather than find any port in a storm; I want to find my desired destination and pull into your port. I do. I really, really do.
I want to be satisfied that this was all worth the pain and the storms from my past.

Love is a bitch.
I know.
But life without life is not life at all.
At least I see this now though.
I am alone, and realizing that should the game give me another chance to play; I swear that I am playing for keeps this time.
And no one can stop me.|
No one will help me either.
and more often, someone will loo to trip me or make me fall to keep me down.
I get that

No one ca stop me. Not even the hour of my death (Amen) because when I have you, then I’ll have you.
And then –
my heaven with be better than sunflowers and ladybugs, butterflies and all the signs that signify hope

Do you understand?
And for the record, if you wonder if I still have hope, then my answer is this.
Of course.
I absolutely have hope because despite the casualties of our wars, and no matter what the differences we’ve seen or experienced may be; and no matter what the life we have is and the distance between us, —somehow, this still found its way to you.
And one day, so will I
I know it