Seeking with more than her heart, her body seeks too.
Not of pleasure, but of warming rescue.
Her back aches.
She has no body to support her sleeping temple at night.
She has no shadow in the creeping moonlight.
Her heart aches.
She has nobody to listen.
She has no news to share.
Glimpses of him are fading, but she’s haunted by the distinct smell of his hair.
Shaking hands with strangers, an intimate act gone unaware.
There is no spark in her palm, no feelings of care.
She’s lonely, but any ole body won’t do.
She’s lonely, so she continues to remember how sweet it felt loving you.
From time to time, I retreat from my daily burdens. I have found my reclusion to birth memories of my childhood, which have clung to my sleeves all this time. One particular notion I have stored away from my younger years is an encounter I had with my 5th grade teacher.
One morning, before settling into our desks to begin our lesson, my teacher stopped me at my cubby (a cubicle bookcase) and said these words to me,
“Your cubby hole says a lot about the kind of person you are. If it is messy, then I will suspect you to be a messy person.”
My cubbyhole had become a black hole. I tried shoving everything I could into the 12×12 space. Pencils, erasers, sharpeners, books, homework, loose paper that would later be rendered useless because of the excessive wrinkles and plenty of other random things that had begun to form an Eco-system. Until my teacher explained to me that my mess wasn’t acceptable, I had no idea I was being represented by my own shelf life.
After spending hours repeating the embarrassing scene in my mind, I asked myself, was my space a misrepresentation of me or was it true? Was I a messy person? Am I, a messy person?
Within my household growing up, my mother was very strict about keeping a clean home. The vacuum was introduced to me at the age of five and the mop became the Robin to my Batman soon after. I knew what it meant to keep clean. I knew the pride my mother took in teaching me about the importance of organization and of the sweet smell of lemon scented Pine Sol.
At school, the cubbyhole was my domain. It was a place where pride didn’t exist and conscious of self was lacking. I was free. My cubby was free. Or so I thought.
Following the conversation with my teacher, I made sure to tidy my cubicle daily. I desperately wanted her to know my bedroom was clean at home and every stuffed animal on my bed was lined up in a meticulous way. I carefully placed my books at the right angle to show the text on its spine and I removed any unnecessary junk that would be an eyesore to the class. At the time, what I was doing felt right. Now, I see so many things wrong with eliminating portions of my mess to convey myself as a well-behaved and organized student. The mess of my cubby didn’t take away from me upholding my respectable behavior and the quality of my work didn’t diminish, but I cleaned as I was told. Mess isn’t attractive.
Many of us go through our lives eliminating our mess in ways that portray the perfect representation of ourselves. We choose the right Instagram filter for the new outfit that was bought online at high dollar price. We clutter our Facebook newsfeed with a shitload of vacation photos. We overload our Twitter timeline with news of landing a super sweet job we applied to three months before.
We fail to post the pictures of our vacation that highlighted three days of nonstop rain during the five days we were there. We fail to post about the time when we were jobless and couch surfing. We fail to mention that we didn’t get the promotion we had been betting on for several weeks.
We have learned that mess is unattractive. We fear what our mess will make others think of us. We fear what our mess represents to ourselves.
With life, shit gets messy. We are messy. No matter what you decide to eliminate from the view of the social world, your mess will remain with you when you lock your home screen and power down your computer. It is a portion of what makes you, you.
I can be a messy person, literally and figuratively.
At this very moment, the floor of my closet is littered with clothes even though perfectly working hangers’ dangle lifelessly above.
At this very moment, the airbed I sleep on reminds me I have progress to be made with my life and with my career.
Don’t allow the highlight reel of your life to be a misrepresentation of you as a whole. Appreciate the mess. Embrace it.
It makes you pretty damn attractive to me.
Whilst sifting through my packed boxes to find a nail file dear to my heart, I came across one of my all-time favorite novels, “The Wind Through The Keyhole” by Stephen King. As I began to place my book back in the box of “all things forgotten”, regret began to creep into my heart. With my novel cuffed tightly in my hand, initially, I thought to leave it out on my night stand, but something about King becoming a token of decor cheapened the priceless treasure I was holding on to.
A bright idea struck me and I decided to read my novel a second time after two years. I believe some of the best things in life come in waves, so why not indulge in a piece of wonder that would surely bring me pleasure in a number of new ways?
Four ways to be exact.
Here’s why you should unearth one of your favorite novels and give it a second, or even third, go around.
1. Relive the magic
A good book never falls short of magic, no matter how many times our oily fingers have rubbed against its enchanted pages. Whether you’re circling a novel a few months later or even years after your initial read, the world you left inside those pages has only expanded by the time you revisit it’s rough and torn streets or white sand beaches. Magic never dies.
2. Discover a fresh perspective
It’s easy to take on a point of view the author has set out for us when we begin reading a new book. Often times, there is no other way to read a tale when we’re discovering a new universe, but once you’ve gotten your feet wet, how about dipping your fingers in next? Seeing the story through the eyes of a separate character or through a new lens you’ve placed on yourself will open the doors of detail. You will be sure to experience something new that you didn’t catch before when you couldn’t pull your eyes away from the page.
3. Fall in love with a new character
Remember that main character that tugged on your heart strings when you were only three sentences deep? Forget about them. Being conveyed by any character is one reason why a novel becomes a favorite, but try to disconnect yourself from the character that you found to be the most engaging and grab the hand of the character that was only present for one chapter or the character that racked your brain with annoyance. You never know, you may find a bit of yourself in the character you placed on the back burner.
4. Become a conversationalist
I have dreams of meeting a person in a quaint teashop decorated with huge, colorful, worn couches that don’t lack an ounce of comfort. The person in my dreams is reading my favorite novel and I have the confidence to sit down and spark up a conversation with said person. I plan to talk in depth about the whimsical fairy tale that is unfolding in the pages before them, but in depth conversations are made up of an endless amount of knowledge and a thirst to gain more knowledge. We won’t just speak about the overall theme of the book, but we will dissect the unspoken truths of it. Allow yourself that reread, so you too can revel in the chatter and charm of your favorite tale of fiction or non-fiction.
She gripped his hand a bit tighter as they picked up their pace. Time was slowly creeping over the horizon. But, she wasn’t concerned with time. Her fingers molded perfectly between his and she couldn’t help but stare at his knuckles. The complexion of his skin fascinated her. It was deep and rich like the skin of a ripe cherry; her skin paled in comparison. The wrinkles on his knuckles became a story her eyes indulged in. She followed each crease with slow intent, making sure to remember every detail with hopes of knowing when the story would climax and when it would end. Trapped in a memorizing tale of love, she continued by his side blindly.
Abruptly, he stopped and seconds later, she too. She asked what was going on as he gazed on towards the horizon. Silent, he remained in his stance. She asked again. This time, he pulled his hand away and turned to look at her. The glaze of his eyes alarmed her, and with fears of his response, she quickly hushed the portion of her mind that said trouble was coming. He began to mumble. Impatiently, she demanded that he speak up. With hesitation, he explained how he wanted her to wait in this spot while he crossed the path alone. Unsure of his request, she asked why. With a mouth full of sweet words, he explained that he needed to make sure the path was safe before continuing to travel it together. She agreed. He smiled. She grinned. He carried on forward without her and she watched as he slowly took each step before him.
Suddenly, his request made her question his reasoning. The path was clear from what she could see. Whose safety was in question?
The sky was blanketed with hues of purple and pink clouds as the darkness began tucking in the sun. She finally realized that time was present.
She moved her focus back to him. He had made it across the path and he stood there, motionless. She called to him. She wanted to know if things were suitable for her in order to cross. Once again, she noticed the glazed look he gave her once before.
She called for him once more and her voice cracked with desperation. She wanted him to answer, but she knew his voice would never be heard again. He turned away from her and hurried ahead. For the seconds that followed, her heart sunk down to her rotting knees. Time was merely a concept as she watched his abandonment in slow motion. Filled with a heating rage, she began to run after him, but she didn’t seem to make it as far as she had hoped.
Under the sun, the earth which had once graced the soles of her feet was cool dry dirt. Yet, under the moon, her feet disappeared in the quick sand that was dragging her under.
She screamed for him. He was becoming a blur to her poor vision, but she knew he was still there. She screamed louder, but she knew he would never save her.
She was his climax. She was the ending.