A Dead Heart

I know. Trust me I know.
I know the pain you are in right now.
You are in it. Deep.
You are soaked in love for a man who has left dust on your boots, skidding out of a parking lot, beer in one hand, steering wheel in the other.
The pain is unbearable and each minute is a purposeful moment in time you are using to simply survive.
You are not there yet. You are in the thick of it, but you are getting there.
Freedom.
You are almost there. Free of the locks and chains you have put around your heart, in an effort to save it just for him.
You are not willing to accept that there is someone special in this universe waiting to love just you. But he's waiting to love you, and he will love you leaps and bounds ahead of what your past could never give you.
I know. Trust me I know.

Born on the Red Carpet

I lied. I always said Colorado is home. When I am away, I am only a visitor, in the city, in the state, in the place I temporarily occupy. I lied. I traveled home a couple of days ago. I stayed in the house that held all my childhood memories. They were like little treasures I found as I walked through the remodeled house. We built forts. My cousins and I built forts using the old wooden piano as cover. The piano moved along with everything else. But, the house, it still smelled the same. I love that smell. I adore that smell. I decided to jog around the neighborhood of Pacific Palisades and quickly remembered what their sidewalks looked like. Broken. Divided. Different sheets of concrete raised up due to quakes, sometimes in the middle of the night. I never could get used to the earthquakes as a little girl. But I have a feeling I would be more terrified now. Adulthood does that to you. Each house unique, built with character. "Miniature castles" my uncle would say. I raised my head to the branches sprawled against the gray sky. A humid sun forcing its way on to my face. The leaves were reds, oranges,and greens. Color never died in California. Unlike Colorado. For the first time, in a long time, I thought to myself, I belong. I belong here, in this moment, in this place. And it was as if I never left. I was supposed to be famous. I was supposed to be a star. I was born to be on the red carpet. But they don't have any in this rocky mountain state. My acting coach would say, "if they don't have one, make one up." But I was supposed to be famous, don't you see?

California. Imagined.

It was while I was driving on the 405, it caught my attention as quickly as a bolt of lightning on a clear day. It was this beautiful white house sitting on top of one of their many rolling hills. Tears quickly flooded my vision and my chest tightened up in the best way possible. I had this clear vision of our family living there, playing in the swimming pool. Our two little girls running barefooted with sun kissed tans. The vision tasted as sweet as cotton candy and dissolved just as quickly.

The Mourning

I mourn for the childless.
I mourn for the parent-less infants.
I mourn for the ones who can't see a marmalade sunset.
I mourn for the ones who can't hear the sound of laughter, or a musical composition.
I mourn for the women who feel inferior to their male partners.
I mourn for the men who overshadow their hearts with their egos.
I rejoice in those who make bold choices and never back down.
I rejoice in someone who can admit fault and laugh at themselves and cry for themselves.
I rejoice in knowing I have loved and been loved in return.
I rejoice in knowing I learned how to trust others.
I rejoice in having hope for better days and believing in someone other than myself.
I rejoice in living long enough to travel to different countries and experience something new almost every day.
But I morn that I haven't let go yet.
I mourn that I have anger cemented around my heart.
I morn for how hard I have made it to let people love me and surround myself around those who are deserving of it.
I morn for the me 10 years from now that may still be stuck in the same spot.

Guide me, I am yours.

And Then There Was Goodbye

I can't formulate a single concrete thought. I am pressured to feel one single emotion, and I am flooded with the salty ocean. It was my decision to cut you from my life, to cut the umbilical cord that traveled from my heart to your soul. You could no longer fill my lungs and my life with your love, with your sweet smile and tender voice. I was, for once, giddy to come home to just me. To cook a meal and laugh alone, hearing it echo against the wood floors. I came and went as I pleased, I answered to no one. I foolishly became aware that the world was so much bigger than me, than you, than this.

And then there was a message. A message that traveled from ones mouth to my ear. And then there were tears. I was single and I was strong and I was ready. Ready for change, ready for movement, ready to look into someone else's eyes and say I love you. But there was a message. I found out you were leaving. And then I knew past the horizon, past the furthest mark that I could see, would lie the mourning.

I saw you. It was everything I didn't think it would be. You were different but still the same, and so was I. Too much happened that night. And I am left with a heavy bag of cotton. I wasn't supposed to cry. You weren't supposed to kiss my head and ask to hug me and then not let go. Some loves just never die. This moment will stitch the cut that severed our relationship. But for right now, this moment has left blood all over the floor. What a mess.

The Old Painter and his Muse

Yes. He was an old painter. How old? No one knew for sure. They regarded him as an elder in his community. One that was respected and loved. His right eye had gone to sleep years ago, closed shut and unwilling to help the elder with any of his paintings. But that didn't bother him much. He adjusted quickly in making sure he didn't knock into a wall or hit someone with his right shoulder. In his late age, he was hyper paranoid and noticed himself looking more right than left. Looking for what? No one knew for sure. His paintings seemed to have more detail on the left side of the canvass but the right compensated with rich color and large brush strokes.

He was quiet. He didn't talk much, laugh much or love much. "Life's too short for that sort of nonsense", a favorite line of his. However, his paintings told a different story. There was a woman. There always is. She was his muse, and in every one of his paintings. Even ones of nature. You could find her sitting in a green pasture with cows and a barn and a pink sunset. She would be as tiny as an ant in the far upper left corner of the canvass; sitting under a full green tree with her straw hat. She had to be included in every painting, because, well--- he loved her.

His hand would shake. Sporadically. Without warning. It would just shake, as if it was a tremor. It didn't bother him, only a mild annoyance and a reminder that he was indeed old. Unfortunately, on this day, he was just finishing Irene's straw hat. "She has to be perfect or this painting----this painting will be incomplete." He spoke with sheer determination, but the suffering was quite apparent. The shaking continued into the night. Why? No one knew for sure. He was reluctant in going to sleep knowing his painting was absent of her straw hat. But he did.

That night his left eye closed shut and did not wake. I imagine he went to find her sitting in green pasture. With her straw hat.