The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every day is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He or she may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door, laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Rumi

Open

Here, he says, is my gift.

"I dream of your hands, of your face, of your lips. I have heard your every dream and fear and bless your generous heart with every ounce of mine. These are the things that come to me over and over again: your form moving against mine in a soft, dark world of our own creation; your eyes sparking with laughter, ready to light me afire; your voice, a secret pathway to the garden exploding with the scents of my desire, ylang ylang, lemon verbena, and lily.

Ask me whatever you want; I am an open book."

No, I am an open book.

Equal Parts

I have this desire to take my posts down, to undo all that was done. To unfeel what was felt. But I won't. I'm struggling to accept what I feel and am, without editing and revising for my own satisfaction, for my own approval.

Right now, here I'm feeling everything is equal parts death and life. Things are passing too quickly, as though I were the unmoving star of a time-lapse video. I'm living like I should have years ago. I feel behind. I feel too far ahead of everyone else my age. I want to say "I'm sorry I disappoint you by being 26 and not married. Fuck you for thinking I should be." But I don't say it. I never do, instead, I cringe and say "I do hope you're happy!" While knowing they're already not.

I fall in love too easily, my heart pours itself out to every waiting ear, giving up a bit of itself every time, hoping for something back.

And I'm reluctant to even post this.

On the dream.

Waking up, after a night in the woods, I am groggy and cranky because there's no shower, no hope of one any time soon. We have pine needles in our hair. I have morning breath, and am struggling out of sleep and uncertain if I can actually live without hot water, or a comfortable bed. And then, a kiss, laughter.

And the knowledge that even now, I love you. I couldn't imagine anyone more perfect than you.

It bears repeating.

Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe. - Neil Gaiman