Fire-colored Firecracker

"I don’t mean to give the impression that I am totally unhappy, for I’m not. It’s just that Brandon’s presence stunts my inner-growth and scrapes greedily against my nerves–like it has for the past two years–and I need to get away from that to reclaim myself."
– October 16, 2010

How strange it is that I can be sitting at my desk, contemplating the falling sun and maple trees and the snap of firecrackers in the October air, and reading something that is as honest and true and relevant as it was nearly an entire year ago? I am trapped in this cycle and I can’t seem to find my way out, mostly because I am lost enough to not want to be found. I am numbly aware that I am only hurting myself…but that isn’t even all that accurate. His boyish smiles charm me, his disregard for anything of importance astounds me, those long fingers that trigger memories behind my eyes…..these things don’t scrape against my nerves as they did. He is different from me, something I so easily categorize as stupid, but who am I to judge? He is flawless and flawed, he is a mess of contradictions, he is sweetness for me at the same time the bitterness leaks through his teeth….he is not mine, but he has a piece of me and I have a piece of him. For always.

This time of year makes me think of cider and smoke and the smell of cold. It makes me yearn for hikes, yearn for piles of fire-colored, crackling leaves to disappear in. It makes me think of reconciliation. It makes me think of super-sharp senses that take in everything all at once, nothing that is obvious. A time of year in which you surrender your soul for the sensory experience. My comments are mostly laughable drivel.

I have been drinking a lot of water, avoiding textbooks for as long as possible, burning an "ocean flower"-scented candle, listening to the Fray and other soft, smoke-like music. All sensory experiences.

I need to connect with someone, with something. I feel so hopelessly buoyed in this ocean, going nowhere at all but moving very slightly. I feel one hundred years old and smile at my youthful glow in the mirror. I skip happily, I hum songs as my fingers tap at the keys, I love the purr of my engine on the way past deep purples and bright reds and golden saffron, field after field, meeting effortlessly with sky. The smell of cows that is disgusting but oddly comforting. Ha, I’m a mess.

I am learning things about my family that I didn’t want to, while simultaneously planning my future, enjoying Dark Chocolate Soy Milk, dreaming by candlelight of all the things that await me in this life. I am hopeless, dreaming, always dreaming with bare feet and strings of soft hair and a heart that beats strong beats, but like those of a hummingbird. I wish someone would talk to me about something meaningful, though I cannot think of a single meaningful thing at the moment.

Love,
Amanda