I sat in bed last night, and thought of things that I usually think about, when it’s 2am, I’m mildly caffeinated on peanut butter m&m’s, circus peanuts, kisses and a great movie. Of course, I pondered death.

 

I imagined someone crawling into my window and bludgeoning my head, creating arcs of blood and wondering if I’d be able to have the peace of mind to plot out a blood-stained confession of who the masked man was. Would I be able to pull off his mask, and then by looking at him straight in the eye… terrify him enough to stop? Would that piss him off and he would start pummeling me harder? This led to my ultimate thought, that… life- is too short.

 

Everyone says this. Life is sacred, and short, and every adjective you could think of from your college thesaurus. I’ve been thinking about death more, as my 26 year old crisis would have it. It probably didn’t help that I watched a movie about women getting their heads lopped off before hitting my pillow- but the company was good, and we both looked shocked and giggled at equal intervals, so- that’s good, right?

 

My mind is elsewhere lately. I feel like I ask the same questions and receive- (of course,) the same answers… only they don’t register. Maybe this is the floating period. The one in between battling the waves and kicking to the surface- it’s it’s own anomaly. And it’s not like there’s not an incredible amount of stuff going on, and by incredible- I mean.. normally I’d be a lump. But luckily- the compartmentalizing of life, and things I cannot control is the best drug a girl can have. Maybe floating is my body’s own way of teaching me how to ride the waves, instead of fighting them.

 

I’ll spill a small secret. Dating sucks. Not that I haven’t dated absolutely fantastic men- (this time around has been shockingly positive- I’m unprepared!) But.. dating, sucks. In all strangeness- I listened to my friends, I got back out there- I did my thing, I cast my spells.. and people called back. (A lot.) And I had to let people go, and I had guilt that built up because really, I sway from wanting one thing to another on a regular basis. The more complexity you have, the more you crave the simple- I think that defines it properly. But there’s no cure for guilt, or feeling like you wished that telling someone, you just knew they weren’t going to be more than friends- well, there’s no cure for any of it.

 

Everyone tells you- when you meet the right person, you’ll know. I’ve, luckily- been blessed with a large amount of angels-singing-from-the-heaven-moments, and I listened to the tugs on my heart- spoke words that I felt, and became encompassed in moments I thought could equal a lifetime. This, has no doubt… numbed me. It’s like after the first couple snows- when everything is covered in white- when you feel the first sniffle in your nose and you smell it all- the 5th and 6th, the 10th and 22nd snow suddenly becomes irritating. You’ve had this moment before, it didn’t last, and you want to let go of their hand altogether. The good ones let you pull back a little, and smile when you adjust your earring or look at your feet for the hundredth time.

 

I don’t want to fall in love. I think by saying it- it might help. I know the things I’ve felt, and the ways in which I gave- and really… I don’t want to play.

 

I remember, I told someone about a week ago, “I don’t believe in love anymore.” And he said, “That’s very sad.” I saw the look in his eyes, and I wondered how I must have looked- like a child who was hurt from something, trying to do the same action- stomping her foot in the meantime.

 

Everyone says I love you. We say it when the mood hits- I think there are so many different types of love- that certainly, at one time or another you can love someone in very different ways. I love my friends- I tell them often, and I think to them- in the beginning, it was strange. The movies show love as only romantic. The kind that spans across decades, or simply cultivates in an adventure. It’s hard to hear I love you- when it’s not meant in that way, I’m sure. I think a part of us, says it- for the sheer comfort of saying those words to another and wanting to mean it- though it may not necessarily be so. Sometimes, typing those words, or whispering those words- give us a release. Suddenly- the very thing we never thought we’d say to another human being again- is being said, and suddenly- it frees us. It’s almost like making love to someone new for the first time after an ex. It’s strange, and liberating, and very, very sad. It’s not that the sadness overwhelms the moment- it just hangs in the air like a memory, non-threatening, but ever-present.

 

It’s a thinking-day. The kind where you’re brain is in a self-induced fog, and muttering overly-flowery sentences is the only way you find the middle ground with yourself- not that you ever lost where you were going, you just haven’t found what you think about it all, yet.

 

Sometimes, I wish those words weren’t invented. You wake up the morning after hearing them again for the first time, and you wonder- how many times have you heard words that just don’t matter, at all. It’s not that you didn’t mean anything, or that they shouldn’t have said them- it’s that like putting on a wedding dress after a divorce, you can’t help but wonder the truth from the wanted, and the genuine from the lies.