Saturday, October 13, 2012


It seems so often we see the world as how it ought to be and dream of it as we wish it could be. As though it never occurred to us that it could be so grand as our own fantasies. We don't allow ourselves to deserve great things. We create the perfect pictures in our minds and decide those places can never be mine. Those pieces are much too much. Much too much for me, for here and now.

Tonight was the first real rain of the season. The leaves come pouring down in droves and scatter across the sidewalks and out into the streets. All orange and yellow papier mache. The autumn smells grow stronger and last longer as day turns to night and we all scatter across the sidewalks and out into the streets. The Space Needle seems so much brighter; standing out in the distance, standing out a beacon to remind us that we're here. It's so easy to forget where we are sometimes.

I breathe in that crisp, cold air and clear my head. You can almost feel it sinking in and cleaning out the fog of summer. It gets so quiet, my footsteps feel so loud. And I think about how it ought to be and how I wish it could be. The I do's versus the ideals. And how I let myself get lost in between them. Why am I so afraid to go after what is good. Why is it so hard to be good to ourselves? Why are we so afraid?

Everything seems so surreal lately; like I'm watching someone else live it. Or like it's happening all around me, in spite of me, despite me. Suddenly you're 31 and you're not really sure how you got here. You start to make changes, but even the changes don't feel like changes. The days just look different than you remember them; the color's off, the stride has strayed just slightly off course in no unrecognizable way. And then you're just so far in that you forget to look out. And before you know it, you're face first in a pile of leaves wondering how winter tore through you and so many seasons so quickly. Late night coffee is back in season and you can start to see your breath again and all this time you've just been thinking about what happens next.

We used to sit in the park and talk about the things we had in common, the people we'd slept with, the childhood traumas, the jokes we didn't think were funny. We'd sip recklessly on champagne and stare at the city down below; like we were watching it in a show rather than the backdrop of our days forgotten more fruitfully with each sip.

Three years later we're all over the place and we're ever so better to ourselves and better to each other the best we know how. Still I wonder, why is it so hard to be good to ourselves?

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