There was a video of a young woman who was asked why she wrote so many love poems.
The young girl responded honestly and with an answer that made sense to me.
She writes love poems instead of suicide notes.
Well done, I say.
Her answer is excellent, I tell you.
I am the same.
I write about love
or you
and I write about my love because the adverse or the opposite is unthinkable to me.
What else is there in this world if there is no fate or destiny?
What else is there is there is no hope?
And if there is no hope, then what else is there to get us up and out of bed?
What else is there if there are no reasons to believe that hope exists enough to keep us going one more day.
I am as I am.
I am this. I am series and compilation of math and other miscalculations.
Yes. I am a series of inaccuracies and contradictions.
I do not belong here and yet, here I am.
I am the fears and the sum of so many bad pasts and historical outcomes.
I am a sum of traumas to which I have decided that I do not need to regard so much, and yet I regard them still because thoughts are habitual and responses are heard to change.
I know that it is fine to say goodbye to the past,
But my past is not what I want to say goodbye to.
No, I want to say goodbye to the ingredients of my previous destruction because if I am ever free enough to have the chance to love my true love again, I want to do it right this time.
I am myself. I am me.
Hear me roar!
I am a missing piece or an otherwise outsider or an external section who is trying to find myself.
Or if at all possible; I am simply looking to find my other and much better half.
you . . .
And namely this, I write what I write because the adverse is too heavy or too painful and for me, I do this because I have no other way to survive. I have no other way to all out or to reach you.
Hence, this is why I come here. And hence, this is is why I have never stopped.
I am here to find you and to find myself and if at all possible. I am here to certify and solidify the one and only connection that makes sense to me.
“Let the chips fall where they may!”
There is a reason why I named this journal what I named it . . .
And as far as I am concerned, everything falls where it does.
The chips and everything else fell and fall where they will.
I have to try.
And, so, whenever or wherever this takes me, I know that wherever I go will be better than wherever I was when I was without you.
I will say this now and if I need to, I will say this 909 times over.
I came across a quote last night.
And this, this right here, this quote by someone in this world whom I never met or knew and yet; somehow, a man who was made similarly to me with his own DNA and with his own background, his own history, and someone with his own culture, his own heartaches and heartbreaks; I know that someone else in this world understood what it felt like to be broken enough to write these words: “In my dreams, you’re mine. In reality, you’re my dream”
This is a famous quote by someone who I can only assume is similarly both hopeful and hopelessly romantic.
This comes from a Syrian poet, Nizar Qabbani.
I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
I am not anywhere other than here and at this place and at this time and while I am perfectly and heartily alone; I am not so dead or dying and I am not so poetically tragic.
I am not where I want to be
At least, not right now.
My days do not end the way I wish they would and nor do my days begin as I dream they will.
I do subscribe to the belief and the relief of seeing the same face before I sleep and when I wake up.
This is my dream.
There is no one else out there for me.
And yet, I have not succeeded when it comes to securing my love.
No, at this point, my love is quiet and silent and distantly elsewhere.
But my love is my love even if my love is elsewhere.
Lying about this would only lead me to settle for something less-than or lower in value.
And no.
I have done that before
but now . . .
I want it all
And I . . .
I have dreams.
I have fantasies.
I have thoughts and ideas and roleplay scenarios that excite me enough to cause the perfect arousal. I am not too proud or so proud that I will deny my solo missions to which I appreciate the singular and soulful reaction of personal bliss.
Ah the sweet redemption of mental and physical masturbation
I think about the way love tastes on my tongue.
I think about the way love feels when a kiss is shared.
I think about the way my love sounds when two bodies become one.
I think about this or how two can be like the eruption and the quakes of the Earth.
I think about the seismic and the orgasmic proportions which devastate the landscapes and like the greatest atomic gesture; I think about the surge which pulsates the mind and explodes from my body.
I think about the way two bodies fit perfectly and how no one else can recreate such a thing
(except you)
anything and anyone else would be a poor excuse for a substitution
and we all there is no substitution when it comes to love
or perfection
I know this
I know this is me.
I know that dreams are ongoing and lofty and at some point, all we can hope for is that the figurative becomes literal.
All I hope for is the spiritual becomes physical and that one day; the time comes when at last, the dreams are real enough that even my fantasies claim, “I never believed anything in the world could feel this good.”
One day though
You will be mine
All mine
I have been asked why I write about love as much as I do or why I write about my heartaches or my heartbreaks.
I do this because the adverse is unthinkable.
I do this to prove that I am still able and capable.
I do this to keep my love alive and even if I die or if I die alone; I do this to put my hopes and dreams out there and into the universe. I do this claim my right, and to which one day –
I will look at you
And I will say this:
See?
I told you so
my love . . .
