Eh.

So there you are, and here I am. And there he was, and here I am. And there HE is, and here I am. Two down, defined, outlined, black and white. One to go. I'm not as thrilled about definition on this one. The second one: I did not feel the same. The third one: hmmm, maybe I did. But circumstances have kept my logic alive and my emotions in check.

You? Eh.

I spoke to her yesterday, of her own situations, and heard her say she didn't want the DTR. I didn't understand then, but upon reflection: I see her point. 

Just get out of my head, if you please. 

The Yellow Rose.

Today, my yellow rose is dying, dead.

It reminds me of the friendship I imagine it to represent. Girls who know much more about flowers than I have told me that this is a friendship rose. I wondered for days who gave it to me, and asked several guys, who all denied this gift. The only person I haven't asked, who I assume gave it to me, took less effort to communicate with me than he did to leave the rose.

So the rose is dead, and the friendship is, too.

A rose is a rose and nothing more when it is not backed up by love. It is thoughtful and lovely and I enjoyed the excitement in my heart when I saw it... but a week later, it is mundane and ugly. 

I shall toss it into the trash and think of it no more.

On a more positive note, I really do love flowers. Especially ones that represent love supported by action.

Leave that Pedestal for someone else to climb

(I wrote this for a friend of mine, but I feel that pieces of it apply to all of my friends.)

There's this wonderful girl I know. She looks out from Egyptian-lined brown eyes at me, trying to fit her current standard of thinking around mine. We think quite differently and frequently force our ideas so strongly against each other that they splatter, like eggs hitting the floor. This splatter leaves just a bit of my idea in her and her idea in me. We're growing, you see, because of each other.

And so it blows my mind, as I stare back into her eyes, that she doesn't see what I see, what everyone sees. Granted, we are all victim of knowing ourselves best, and seeing ourselves more clearly than anyone but God. It's true that we, as a race of people, are harder on ourselves than others. But I get frustrated when I can't take this video of her that's in my head and transfer it into her thoughts.

She doesn't know that she lights up the room when she walks in, even if she's in a downtrodden state. She hasn't realized that people flock to her because of her compassionate and deeply loving soul. She hasn't successfully understood how her energy is contagious, her smile catching. She hasn't become her true self in fear that others won't like her (we are all so naive in this aspect.) BUT, the glimpses that we all get of her beauty ARE her true self. I hope that this beauty will one day present her true self to her subconscious... then seeing her soul in the truest, purest light. I wish and pray that she will crown herself princess of her body, so that the insecure demons inside her will have to submit to the True one. He has given her reign as princess through His grace and love.

One day... she will move past these tears of frustration and pain to understand that he's just a jerk parading around in a lover's suit. He's not a lover. He's not a friend. He's got his own problems, and he's not perfect. And that's okay. But it's not okay for him to keep up this charade of caring, of selflessness. He's not who he says he is (and to be fair, none of us exactly are), and I wish he'd just be man enough to leave her alone. But she, fair-hearted as she is, doesn't think she is strong enough for it. Short term gain for long term pain. I understand, for you see, I've been there before. Several times. But then there are those times you just have to immerse yourself in the heartache and melancholia so that it will depart from you when you become strong enough to cast it out. If you invite your enemy in for tea every day, he will slyly form that habit. Your strength will waiver and your heart will break (at least minutely) every time.

I love you, dearest, most beautiful friend. I love everything about you. I admire the steps you have taken to become so broken, even if they weren't your top choice. Your brokenness has NEVER made you ugly, but has only made you human. You've fallen off of your own pedestal, and I wish you'd stop trying to climb back up to the top. You are PERFECT how you are, and you will grow into who you are meant to be.

God is Love, dear one. He will mend your heart and heal your soul and comfort your grieving.

The Lips of Lovers Shan't Part with Pasts.

She kept the box a secret from the rest of the explorers.

It was lodged in a wooden puzzle bookcase in the office. Despite being overrun with thousands of skaters, explorers and runaways over the past 11 years, it appeared as though nobody had ever looked twice at this unembellished purple velvet box.

They walked on in front of her, oblivious to her thoughts and curiosity regarding this treasure. They were headed towards the graffitied Budda, talking of ways to scale the massive statute. She barely heard their chatter as her hands ran over the edges of this box. There was no opening, which she found odd. What is the purpose of such a velvet brick? It sounded and felt hollow. She put it in her purse for the time being, until she could be sure that she would not be distracted by her friends. It was her find, her discovery, her intrigue.

The manly men, as they were lovingly dubbed by the group, scrambled to the top of the faux mountains, followed by some of the more courageous women. She sat a good distance off, examining the box in detail. It was burned in one corner, as if a careless smoker had left a cigarette burning upon it as he walked away to attend to a mundane task. She pondered this burn, and other minor bits of wear and tear to the sturdy shell.

She then found a sharp piece of metal, which she used to cut the top piece of the box off. She had hoped for a hidden treasure within, but found it empty. She inspected the green silk-paper interior, which revealed nothing of its past to her. She was growing more and more frustrated by the minute, because this box (which was clearly out of place among the vandalized houses and windows) held closely its past and secrets.

At the peak of her annoyance, she hurled the box towards the murky, algae covered pond in front of Budda. Only one of her friends at the top saw her reaction, and merely chalked it up to meaningless destruction: the theme of the day.

So the box drifted to the bottom of the moat, never to be seen again by human eyes. It was quite successful at containing the secret of its journey to this theme park land. It would never utter the story of the cigars it housed in Thailand, or the money it stored during the travels across the Pacific. It would keep tight the political and social discussions it overheard over many a bottle of Chivas in the home of the Californian sailor, and the tale of the thrift shop in which it sat for 3 years and 2 months. It refused to part with the memory of a British businessman, who for his Asian wife, purchased this newly sacred box as a gift. His gift to her contained 2 commemorative tickets to the opening of his life's dedication: a tribute to her culture and his love for her, Splendid China.

It never once spoke of the simple love it contained for many years, or the vast betrayal it detected that forced the park (and her heart) into closure.

The box, at the bottom of the pond, decayed as easily and quickly as the love it purportedly housed. 

Sham.