When in Love

Here I lie,
all darkness about me,
surrounded by the quiet
hum of existence.

The stillness is not complete tonight,
and so I take this moment
to converse with my memory.
Strange that we should
always pick you for our topic
of interest,
but not so strange either.
Now, in the calm,
we return to a lingering image
of your smile,
and recall that it was yesterday you last spoke to me.
I feel like a child
for sharing this,
but I fear it must be said: I love you
in some small way.
And my heavy head, now unburdened of the secret,
may rest fully and
lure the memory to its rightful sleep.

content

Each word you say lifts me to a new height.
Hearing our every thought collide can only serve
to fuse the bond we find between us.

You are, in a word, irresistible.

Choosing my words
but letting my thoughts run,
I endeavor to make you smile,
speaking through the laughter you inspire in me.
And when I perceive your amusement,
I behold with pride what I have created.

Without me, your life would be without
some speck of light,
and I am comforted.

Now as we say goodbye,
each whispering softly what both would freely express,
I admit that your company is precious to me;
leaving it to your subtlty to know I just mean you.

My Confession

It's rather terrible to be somehow reassured in one's own worth by someone else's misfortune. So I ask myself, how can I feel this way? Can I really be that unfeeling and conniving of a person? Of course I love my friends, but at the same time I occasionally get the feeling that I use them to my advantage every once in awhile. Again, I ask.. This can not really be me!??!! It's normal to feel slighted when attention isn't achieved when you need it, but to be indirectly pleased when, because of someone else's bad luck or bad timing, you are made to actually look good?? yes, I am aware now that my life is one of farce,  deception and pretend merry-making. I don't dream at night anymore, but sort of take part in a calculating, dry dialogue that doesn't make sense to anyone present. Silly things gain prominence, the same actions are repeated over and over, and nothing is completed because I always awake and must start again. Why am I not susceptible to the emotion of others; when they cry, oh how I wish I could with them, but nothing is there. I may feel for them, but my eyes have never been so unfruitful. My theory? I am too damn caught up in my own life right now, while pretending even to myself, to be giving, sacrificing, LIVING for others!!! And I have been living, no! existing in this facade without realizing the terrors it can put me up to. It's a horrid thing to be ungrateful. Little would I like to see the finger of guilt pointed in my direction, and I stir awake to witness it shakingly accuse to my very face.

Even as I write, thoughts occur to me: Oh Sara, how wonderful that you could use your words to perhaps be a solace to others, to assure them that they do not experience alone. And some will think better of you when you finish because you had the courage to face your dissatisfaction of your own frailty! Oh, my dears, how subtle! but not really so subtle after all.

Can't you see that I am throwing this out to you, desperately?? as one trapped by something that crept up from within and over-powered its source of life. Oh God help me! Now as I type these characters, there is a rush of irresistible pleasure in being so depressed and in need of help.

Is it possible to be more shallow than this?

-finis-