Memories of that mirror.

Sometimes when I am listening to someone else's poems, I stumble over a line and after a blank moment, I remember. A memory of you and I rushes to the front of my mind. A faded memory that quickly turns into a memory of how you and I, left us behind. All of this just so that we'd end up in bed with another faded mirror memory.
In that last line, I pause and remember that night we slow danced in the darkness of your room. I remember leaving the party early to stand next to the door, while you rushed to turn on the Marvin Gaye song. You came back towards me, turned off the lights and grabbed me. Our steps weren't quite right for the dance, but I let that go, I let you lead and thought, please, make it work. All of this just so that we'd end up in bed with another faded mirror memory.
In that last line, I pause and remember the reflection of us brushing our teeth together at the exact same time. At the exact same time so I wouldn't have to be alone in the bathroom of your place. At the exact same time so I could peek at us in the mirror, while I pretend to care about the hygiene. I remember seeing how well our skins go together. I remember seeing how well our heights go together. I remember seeing how very well our images looked next to each other.All of this just so that we'd end up in bed with another faded mirror memory.
I remember timing the minutes I spent on my teeth, so you wouldn't think it was too little a time. I remember timing that moment wishing we would stand there together forever, creating the image of that couple living inside that mirror. I remember wishing I could peek at them, that perfect image of us, forever. And I would not have to imagine it again, because they'd be there inside the mirror, while I forgot what we looked like to eyes of the other. I could see it in the mirror every time. I would keep that couple inside the mirror now and every time. I remember them in that last line and I pause, and remember that wish;All of this just so that we'd end up in bed with another faded mirror memory.
I wish, still, that I could have kept them at least only there, inside that mirror. Then in that last line of someone else's poem I wouldn't have to stumble. I wouldn't have to pause and I wouldn't have to remember how you and I, let us, let them, let that mirror, go. All of this just so that we'd end up in bed with another faded mirror memory.

I really like this video.

I guess that's what happens when you've been here for too long.

So I wanted to speak with Liz. Below is what I came up with.

5:26:41 PM Juanita Monsalve: Hey
5:26:42 PM letterstovogue (Autoreply): (idle)
5:26:46 PM Juanita Monsalve: I really really miss you.
5:26:52 PM Juanita Monsalve: But I refuse to call you.
5:26:58 PM Juanita Monsalve: Because I have come to hate tphone.
5:27:00 PM Juanita Monsalve: *the
5:27:28 PM Juanita Monsalve: Yet, I am now realizing that I have no other way of coming in contact with you.
5:27:56 PM Juanita Monsalve: I wish there was some other way. You know like the communication we used to have before. I just refuse to use the phone.
5:28:56 PM Juanita Monsalve: And, by I refuse to use the phone, I don't only mean that I refuse to call you. I mean I refuse to answer anyone's calls as well.
5:30:41 PM Juanita Monsalve: Calling is such a hassle. And the conversation is just not the same. I can barely hear people and I can barely concentrate on what they are saying. This is not to mention that I just cannot give you my juiciest life details and secrets over the phone. This is not because I don't want to, but simply because there is something impeding them from coming out. It's like they become gay and locked in a closet.
5:31:33 PM Juanita Monsalve: I hate the phone. But I miss you so much. Come back to me like it used to be. I think I have always hated the phone. I used to hate those long conversations we had. I also used to hate it when you called because you were so bored you had nothing else to do.
5:34:33 PM Juanita Monsalve: I remember telling you that I had to go, just so I wouldn't have to go through the pain. Somehow I can stand the pain of knowing you when I see you, but not on the phone. Maybe it has to do with seeing your face and feeling the pity I feel for myself knowing that I need to be your friend, because that's just how things work. Maybe that appeal of your face is not there over the phone. I hate that I always have to skip over Billy Idol like crazy, when my itunes is on random. I officially hate him but I am stuck having all of his songs.
5:35:45 PM Juanita Monsalve: I should be reading right now, but instead I've decided to have a conversation with you the way I would like conversations to be on the phone: just me talking and disregarding your answers to continue with my tale. That's exactly the way it is when we speak in person, and how I wish it would work over the phone. It doesn't work that way.
5:36:58 PM Juanita Monsalve: I don't really know much about what's going on in your life right now. I will blame this fact on the phone as well. Why is it that in our society of constant 'improvement' we couldn't have invented a form of communication that was at least a little less annoying than the phone?
5:37:05 PM Juanita Monsalve: Any other form.
5:38:43 PM Juanita Monsalve: I also wish we could have time for each other. But another fact in our story, is that we barely belong in each other's worlds now. We aren't immediate images of daily turmoil, like we used to be. We used to be the wallpaper of each other's wall that we saw as soon as we opened out eyes. And now, we barely exist in each other's life.
5:38:59 PM Juanita Monsalve: I won't see you in Germany.
5:39:14 PM Juanita Monsalve: I will be going for the fall and will probably be back for the spring.
5:40:48 PM Juanita Monsalve: I don't even know your friend's names or whether I might approve -because I often don't approve, specially of other friends who are girls. I don't know what your major is, although I doubt you know for sure. I don't know what your future plans are. I don't know whom you are totally in love with right now. I don't know your clothes or haircut anymore.
5:43:00 PM Juanita Monsalve: Things have changed do much that now when I think that if we truly had triumphs, we wouldn't feel the ultimate friend sympathy of happiness. I think we might feel the jealousy of people, who barely know each other.
5:43:00 PM letterstovogue (Autoreply): (idle)
5:45:11 PM Juanita Monsalve: I guess I am done whining about our lack of communication. I'm sure you aren't too worried about it. Since you are surrounded by various people whom you like and who measure up to your taste. You know already that's not the case for me.
5:47:10 PM Juanita Monsalve: In any case, just pick up the phone and give me the call. I give up. I don't have any other way to communicate with you. I hate the phone, so call me.

Why can't we see? Why do we want the things we want? and why can't we see the things that work and see how easy it could be to make them work. Instead, of obsessing over something that we won't work. We live in memories. Why can't we see past things, past those moments of brokenness? I want to and I did. And now I need to force myself to not see past those mistakes, to not think about you and to see you, past all of those mistakes. Now, I need to see past wanting this and find something that would work. I need to see past and find what I can't see, that works.

I don't want to see the person I used to see. I need to view the kid who doesn't want me and who didn't value me no matter what else. 

You are still so the love of my life, Christian.

"Need a roommate? I feel like this is mega-creepy, kinda craigslist, and super awkward, but I suppose I'll have to solicit the Schmooze for potential roommates, too. SO, a little bit about myself:

I'm a first-semester sophomore concentrating in the history of art & architecture, with a secondary concentration in the studies of women, gender, and sexuality. That means I'm gay. (Also, a feminist.) I worked for Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign last semester (politically, I'm left of center), in New Hampshire. That means I'm comfortable with rural/small town folk. (Also, appreciative of people who aren't.) I'm originally from Ohio, but moved to Florida when I was young. I'm clean, organized, and spend a lot of my time outside of my room. I wake up as late as I can, and go to sleep as late as necessary (sometimes not at all). I have a semi-extensive movie collection and a wide range of books (from Atlas Shrugged to works by David Sedaris to Standing Firm, Dan Quayle's terrible autobiography)."

So, I ask you, give me "Something."

It has become as custom of mine now, not only a custom, but a bad custom, to sleep to ignore life. And so when I am at my most nervous, most disappointed, most uncertain, I sometimes find no other solution than to sleep. When this drug-like sleep does take over me, it is not of great depth. On the contrary, I can see life happening as I sleep and I try to live it, in that other world where it seems more justifiable or possible. Lately, it all seems so tiring, that I feel it driving me to leave. I need to hope for "Something" else, for "Something" within the outside that can give me a certain breath of impulse. But it all seems like a custom and routine. And somehow, amongst it all, I seem to pass by unwanted and unrecorded. There is "Something" so large lacking in this fulfillment. And knowing, how much another did matter, and realizing that whatever I am to you, just didn't make it that far, did not make it on a list, is, sadly, still disappointing. 

So here I am, asking for "Something". 

Untitled.

I meant to write a short piece about me, not so much about me, but what matters to me. We could maybe call it: what I am made of. But I've got nothing. It seems undefined. And in the course of those few hours that I waited to write this, a lot happened and I simply lost the thought. In some way though, its not that I lost the thought, but more that after all of this time I can't answer. I cannot pinpoint what matters to me. Some people love music, some people love art, and some people love writing, but for me, maybe because of my lack of memory retention, because of my inability to research or to download, I don't love. I can't say I love, because I can't truly and profoundly love; to love is to know. And I can't say that I know about something, because I don't know about anything at all. I detest the idea that I, sincerely, don't know about anything. I can't tell you about anything. I can't tell you about art, about music, about history, about poetry, about philosophy, because I don't know them. I am blank.

But I don't feel blank; there must be something with in me. It is just not complete, so much to the point that I can conclude, that I don't know anything. I could say I love art, and poetry and philosophy, but how can I, if I don't know them? 

I'd like to go back to writing poetry. I'd like to go back to having those vivid thoughts that I so constantly described with picturing metaphors. But I can't. When I call for such a description, it never comes. I guess, my being, the 'me,' will remain untitled, because it is blank. I am blank, and untitled.  

Her.

Sometimes, when I hear her poems, I just wonder off, away from her words. And, as her critic I wonder if she'll change her topic or her style. But inside I wonder more. I wonder when will she heal? When will she be able to let go? And when will her memories stop being in animation and become static? Because to constantly re-live them, is perpetuation of a wound, the creation of a scar. Let her find a new topic, let her see something new, because now, its time for both of us to heal.

Ok, here we go again, just trying to clear some thoughts, and see the result.

There is something missing.

You see, when I asked you if you wake up at odd times and and feel it missing? I meant it. Something left us, something gone. I wonder if we could find it. No, I wonder what happened, to then wonder can we re-construct it? or can we begin building for the first time? can we search for it? can someone give it back? I need to know what happened first to fix it. And truly, I don't know if we lost it. I don't know if we had it, because I can't remember. Was it her memory that took it away? or was it just me that saw it and when you looked it just wasn't there? It seems like it could be a game we played. But then again, I don't want to play games. I guess my mind knows that our time is getting too short for that. Because you see, friendship is fine and all. But what else is there? And don't tell me that what is there is what we see at night because that, well, that I didn't feel. And maybe that's the thing, I need to feel. Before any of this I need to feel. But I don't know what to feel, because I don't know what you feel. Sounds ridiculous now? Cause we can't base how we feel on a parameter of how much can I feel compared to you. This shouldn't be about an equal amount, like at the flea market. Yet, now it is. Because I cannot deny to myself that I am afraid to do this again and to end up hearing the lines that expressed that the feelings were just not equal. The funny thing is, I still wonder how you could have said that to me and I wonder if it is so easy to let go of that, just because I want you here with me. I need you to make me think its ok, to let me know its ok. I need you to be someone else, to be real. But you, my friend, yeah cause that's all we should end up as, friends. Well, you my friend just don't want to do that and just aren't that way, at least with me. This is then more upsetting, because it is just with me, because with someone else you cared. And you say you care, and I want to take you for your word, but its about showing it. It's about giving me time in your time. It's about giving me attention, but then again when I want it I wonder if I am just being a baby. All the while wondering, if I could throw this away, and throw away something that I might want later. Do something, well, like you did. Is this about time? Am I supposed to give it time and just expect my little mind to be working 24.7 to see a little sign that its ok? If you would at least give me that, I'd wait. But maybe we are just missing the spark now a days and there isn't even one picture to show that there ever was.

Maybe it's about our patterns.

I should have a pattern. And I haven't quite decided which one I'd like to have. But I guess I have one. I'm not sure if I like it or if it is something I want to keep. Is my pattern to dislike the nice guys, give up on the perfect ones that don't like me and settle for the good ones? Or is my pattern to always have to compete with the intense shadow of a past relationship and to more often than not lose?
Or is my pattern simply to lie to myself?

So, I guess I'll keep lying to myself. But please no more vintage man!