Love, they say

I was rummaging through my old notes from summer course when I found this little random epiphany written on a sheet of paper. Revised for clarity.

People and media romanticize falling in love a lot. I understand the hype, but for me, it’s so hard to deal with.

I don’t love — I become hyper-aware. I am obsessed. Worried. Tense. Paranoid. Depressed. And very, very anxious.

The last time “love” happened to me:

  • I endured some of the worst panic attacks in my life.
  • I had thoughts of self-harm.
  • I hallucinated in my sleep.
  • I disengaged from my friends.
  • I cried so hard I threw up.
  • In fact, I was throwing up everywhere I went, pretty much.
  • Lost my appetite and nearly passed out.
  • Had chronic stomachaches.
  • Had chronic anxiety attacks that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy
  • Had intrusive thoughts 24/7.
  • Had depression.

Looking back, now only does it sound funnier when I read this stuff aloud but I wonder why I went so gaga over that specific person. Maybe it was my firsthand assumptions about them or that they looked like a work of art in human form. If that’s so, it doesn’t explain why the symptoms were so…paradoxical.

Why do I react the way I do? My sister knows and she contends that it’s insane. Even I know it.

I don’t have answers to that. Such is the wild, unpredictable nature of love.

This person exists. Perhaps that should be reason enough.

But…

I be sure to take every painful situation as a learning curve.

I remember watching a Twilight Zone episode where a woman kept running away from some creepy man that seemingly stalked her across the country, and she kept calling out for help to the local passerbys that she encountered. although no one believed her. Near the end of the show, our protagonist, about half dead with fright, tried to contact the phone operator to put her on the line with her mother. The response was, “(Name of mother) has been crying over her daughter’s recent death.”

It hit her: she was dead all along. She just didn’t know how to accept Death — the same Death who was the creeky stalker, by the way, that was following her across the country, beckoning her to follow him into the afterlife with minimal fuss.

I narrate my life with parallels such as these, so let me explain. Before, I was the terribly insecure, desperate, love-starved girl who kept phoning the operators of Fate to give me the love I so craved and thus rescue me from withering away into a lonely, lonely life.

Then the operator picked up.

“Tiffs is suffering from excessive anxiety and thus can’t qualify to our Matchmaking line right now.”

Just as our protagonist realized the truth about herself, I realized mine: I was in intense pain. Fate, disguised as a lurking doom-and-gloom singleness, was merely beckoning me to put aside my love worries and continue on with my life, single but pain-free, even though I initially fought against him.

Accepting Fate’s advice wasn’t going to be easy, but knowing the truth about myself might just be the thing to strengthen me until I’m truly mentally ready to accept the next lovebug that comes my day through the series of coping mechanisms I developed after my precious experiences.

The truth? It doesn’t matter whether you have someone or not. What matters most is how at peace you are with your state of mind. That is the only way to feel authentic happiness.

You can’t be that lonely if you’re at peace with yourself first. Right?

But…ya know. All the millennial girl bloggers ever have probably said the exact same thing as I have. We’re so similar it’s disgusting. xD

Evanesce

Photo by Nita on Pexels.com

Vanished! she did

assimilating into depths of time

leaving nary a reminder of her presence

except shards of memories as ambiguous

and muddled as my assumptions.

How do I regain a livelihood that was

already lived for me?

I needed that closure, you see,

so I can fail myself more…gracefully

while summershine’s powder puffs

stay their season’s stay.

*

Poof, she did,

like how the goddess of spring

dissipates into the air leaving none but

a few wafting cherry blossom petals

adorning the warm wind.

Ruminations of you — wonder no more! —

came to a halt in your sudden absence

and fueled instead the song of a crying piano

while the powder puffs arrived

to prolong their stay.

*

Anon, I am,

falling in love with myself so that

I despair again, because I vested into a

cheap mimicry of myself, yet so

enshrined in stars that ne’er held

a light to their original inspriation.

Meanwhile, the powder puffs,

whispy whirlwind powderpuffs,

suspended like time itself,

came to stay their leave…

Quotes that I made up

In case you ever need inspiration from quotes. I composed them all by myself, by the way, so trust me when I say you’re not gonna any corny-ass Marilyn Monroe quips from here.

– It’s not your successes that define you but the bravery to pick yourself up and try one more time.

– You haven’t failed enough until you actually succeeded.

– If you want to know someone with mental issues, ask them if they’re a poet.

– If everything goes well for too long, something is definitely wrong.

– Don’t drive when in love.

– Sometimes the best teacher is yourself.

– Always have a plan B.

– Keep wondering about everything. Chances are, you can write a bestseller with the answers you come up with.

– My friends would be good Christian girls. My best friends would be weird-ass punk introverts.

– Stop people on the streets and ask to take a picture of their clothes. Email growing channels with questions they’d love to answer. Take the initiative to do something you never did. You aren’t living your life to the fullest unless you’re the instigator.

– If I have to be depressed, then at least I’ll be depressed with style.

– Life isn’t about attaining the ultimate rose-colored life. It’s about making the best out of what we already have.

– If it’s too easy you’re doing it wrong.

– Life wasn’t made to overcome you. You were made to overcome life.

– Life’s a bitch. But God is still good.

– The only way to truly be yourself is to break out of the mold your role model designed for you.

– Writing is 1% actual writing and 99% figuring out how to write.

– Sometimes all you can do is the best you can ever do.

– Am I normal or is everyone else just crazy?

– Your vulnerability invigorates me. I’d like to slip you into my heart and hold you there forever.

Arches

Eyebrows —

so bushy

I can lose myself in a garden

of clustered follicles.

Arches

like flying buttresses

leading into entropic passion.

A framed testament to your soul,

I lust for a life dedicated to

making love to them.

Pupper

two yellow labrador retriever puppies
Photo by Chevanon Photography on Pexels.com

I found this one in an old notebook!

***

You were the one holding

that baby retriever and facing the camera

With a gleaming grin of

Ecstasy all over your face.

You were the one, with a sleight

Of touch, snapped an aesthetic

Of them playing,

Biting

Whining,

Slobbering,

Their cootie-cuddly baby eyes shut tight

In dreamy ruminations.

You are the one hiding beneath that

mound of wriggling fur,

Not knowing, innocent as they,

As I once was,

Who’s really hiding under that lively mound.

You say, “puppy farm”

But for all I know,

I say, “puppy mill.”

I don’t like puppies.

Manifest Secret

woman s index finger on her lips
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

As I tell us my story of you,

The tension of your omnipresence spills

All over the tangible world

Like a child splattering its wholesome glory

Over a ripe canvas.

Everywhere I am,

You are —

For the trees to breathe in,

For my father to hear my giddy delight,

To guffaw with my friends,

For you to oust my secret stories

Out of the woodworks.

For the mountain-tops

To rejuvenate the air

And draw a portrait

Of you.

The ripple has ceased,

Longing has eased —

One of those dilly-dallying days

If I think of you again,

I need only spread my tendrils

And grin.

The Truth About “Artists”

I’ll try to make this quick because I have homework to get to, but first I thought I’d let you know something. Also because it’s coffee hour for me after attending college in the city all day.

“Poetic.” “Aesthete.” “Artistic.” These are the terms others have dubbed me. I get it — I am working for a degree in the humanitarian sector of the workforce. When I’m doing homework, my mind is trying to cobble up a tap dance choreography to an invigorating jig that I can perform in front of an awestruck crowd. I stare at beautiful pictures of models and actors like they’re paintings from the Louvre. I will literally stop in the middle of a walkway to observe the cherry blossoms fall above me, and I stand like that for hours. Any heartbreak takes me months to get over. And if I’m not actually writing poetry, I wax poetic to my exasperated sister on the way home from college on how my crush looked at me the wrong way today or how I’m surrounded by idiot NPCs every day who should really go to Safeway to buy ingredients for a better life, or how I sobbed my way out of my latest existential crisis or how no one likes me, or if they do, they aren’t substantial enough, or…

No, I get it. Labels are superficial, and while I don’t take them seriously, I realize this much about myself. I can’t live life without observing it through aesthetic lenses.

But what I also previously assumed about myself…is totally wrong. I used to think that aestheticism enables me to find beauty in  everything.  That means finding beauty inside of people, not just in obscure models whom I don’t even know personally. I thought being an aesthete would make me a good judge of personality.

Wrong.

I’ve noticed a pattern every time I fall in love, whether on real live people or whether it’s on models. All my objects of affection…they’re all physically beautiful in some way. Otherwise they have a tendency to look a lot like me. Ask my friends — they’ll tell you that the pictures of them stashed on my phone have the same haircut as me, same facial as me, same fashion statement etc.

That’s right — I’m a narcissistic bastard. Mum wasn’t wrong when she said she noticed a high percentage a poets she knew in her life based much of their craft on themselves.

Isn’t it ironic, then, that as much as I bemoan guys for calling me beautiful when they express their interest in me, appearance is the #1 factor for me that piques the most significant amount of interest towards someone?

And look, I’m not saying that appearance shouldn’t be an important factor in choosing your friends or life partner. It is. But when I examine my own judgements of people, I realize that I overestimate the quality of people when they’re beautiful just for being beautiful while I vastly underestimate their inner qualities. Of course, I do my best to find out who people really are inside.

But let’s be real: I have a wayyy higher favorability bias towards beautiful people at first sight than if they weren’t. Don’t even get me started on last year when I had multiple nervous breakdowns because I saw someone absolutely gorgeous on campus when I haven’t even met that person. Really wreaked havoc on my mental health. If that’s not an extreme case of bias, I don’t know what is.

Bottom line? I glorify beauty, but how much is too much? At what point does glorifying appearance became superficial, especially when my object of affection looks a lot like me?

I don’t have the answer to all these questions since I’m still figuring myself out. I just thought I’d let you know that artistry comes with a darker side. Trust me, I know. I’ve been heartbroken many more times than I could count because “aesthetically beautiful” didn’t live up to my standards. It’s common sense to not judge anyone by their looks, but why I still can’t stop lusting after physical appearances, I don’t know.

I’m not saying all aesthetes have such tendencies, or non-aesthetes aren’t going to go gaga over the next sexy lady in their frat circle. But I know who I am, and I can attest this lived experience to you.

As I like to say: want to know whether someone is a narcissist? Ask them if they’re a poet.

 

 

 

 

Flux

pink petaled flowers closeup photo
Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

I caught the glorying gaze of a cherry blossom tree;

Its fortune told me the future of my hearting flame.

I inhale its preening scent of beautiliciousness

And throw it to the sky,

Sky,

Sky…

 

I saw you. Then.

You didn’t even spare me a sympathetical glance.

Please don’t hate me now. Hate me later.

All I need is an understanding while I cry,

Cry,

Cry…

 

Because

view of dark hallway
Photo by Aidan Roof on Pexels.com

A moment in the interlude of infinity,

My thoughts flicker over to you —

I think a pixie sprite wrapped

Its spindly slender antennas around my heart

And emitted warm pulses through my quivering veins.

A whiff of burberry once again

Uplifts my head into the air

As if it’ll snag my chin and kiss me down

To the barren strips of my soul.

My neck aches from craning at each footstep

In each desperate hour.

Perhaps another day, then,

I’ll hear your voice

Sweet as bubbling milk with honey.

You say your lines to-do,

but your eyes ask,

“Why this hicktown stranger?”

Well,

Because…