These Are My Confessions;;

She thinks you are magnificent, I hope you know. This girl cares about you so much. Now don’t avert your eyes, I’m not confronting you or trying to make you uncomfortable, I’m just stating the very obvious. I can tell that you’re the kind of guy to pack his bags at any mention of emotion or commitment, so understand that I am not trying to scare you away. It’s just that I can see the way she looks at you and the way her composure changes as you approach her, but she doesn’t know she is such an open book. I can see her hold her chin high, clenching her fists in an effort to get over you, but as I watch I can also see her eyes praise you, betraying every other part of her that stands defiant. She is so strong, but your strength overthrows hers, and time and time again you fail to see the beauty she exerts. Her pain and tears you call a weakness, so she covers it up with that smile you claim to adore. She does all this to make you happy, because when you are happy, she is too.

Where did your affection go? Did it disappear with the summer sun, or are you just hiding from it all so you don’t fall as hard as she has. You’re the type of guy who shows silent appreciation, but often you will slip up and tell her what you’re really thinking. You open your heart for a split second, enough for her to maybe peak in, before you slam the door shut. I can tell she’s used to it, for she expects to be forgotten by you... she expects to be the backup plan on every occasion. You’re her priority, she’s only your option. You know she won’t leave, so you walk away confidently, knowing whenever you return, she will be there, as loving as ever. Want to know why this is all pathetic? Because you can stand tall and proud, call yourself a man and act all big and mighty. But when it comes to her, you can’t face her and tell her what she is dying to hear. Tell her it’s over, tell her you’re done. Tell her to move on, to grow up. Stop acting like she’s the one for you, and tell her she is not.

But you can’t, can you? You need her in your life. You could never admit that you love her just as she loves you. The only difference between you two is you don’t rely on her as she does you. Can’t you finally see what I see? Your life has taught you to be powerful but you have had to do it on your own. When she met you, she took after your strength, but she needs you there so that she can prevail. So give her your hand and pick her up off the ground. You don’t need to hold it and guide her, she’s independent enough to fend for herself. You need to stand by her side, and just once in a while whisper in her ear; tell her she is beautiful, tell her she is exactly what you’ve always wanted.

Cause dammit boy, if there is one thing I’ve learned about this life, is that the tables do turn on you. You don’t want to wake up one day realizing how much you need her in your life, because guaranteed that will be the same day she wakes up and decides she doesn’t need you in hers.

It’s a little moment of clarity that comes after the rain; when the sun first appears from behind the gloomy cloud. At this specific moment, the sunshine looks brighter than it had ever before, because we had almost forgotten what it felt like on our skin. But then our eyes adjust, and we are left wondering if the sky had really appeared clearer a moment ago, or if it was just our pathetic imagination.

I personally think that we all know the truth about everything from the very beginning. We just choose to ignore it most of the time. We place filters in our mind, that put bias actions into play, leaving us paralyzed when the truth finally knocks us in the face. This theory would clearly explain the saying “the wife is always the last to find out.”

So, when the avoided truth finally roots itself to your attention, you become haunted by all the revelations that it brings. You are not recalling the happy moments. You are recalling the moments that brought a smile to your face, but this time seeing them differently. Now you see the truth behind the action, the truth behind the face; you’re pretty much royally fucked. To say you feel used is putting it lightly. You knew it all along, and it still took you forever to figure out. So not only are you feeling retarded (yes, I know the correct political term is differently enabled), but you're depressed, suppressed, and any other –essed word that would work in this situation.

And your friends are telling you to suck it up.

So why don’t you?

It’s was all a false sense of comfort; a mirage of a crumbled wall. Now that it’s back to reality, you realize you never penetrated the wall. In fact you were so far from the wall itself, that it was completely out of sight. And the comfort you enjoyed so much? Well it was actually a hay stack. It sort of melded to your body, and proved a sturdy place to rest. Maybe that’s why you were able to ignore the itch for so long, and deny that it was all bullshit.

Just keep in mind; if you always do what you’ve always done, then you’ll always get what you always got.

And while what I got had its perks, I’m looking for something different now.

<3

Remember, sometimes a little lie is good for the soul.

The Invisable Window

She took a deep breath, inhaling the clean fall breeze. She could no longer taste the sweetness of summer; the chill in the air suggested a winter frost was on the way. Shuddering at the thought of another cold winter in the city, the woman began to approach the park bench. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her breathing constant, it took everything she had to not break down right then and there. The park bench had been in view for quite some time, but it seemed to take forever to get there. Everything had turned against her it seemed, for even time itself had slowed, just to make her walk of shame linger. So she watched the leaves falling in slow motion to distract herself, tried to find patterns in their flight, tried to find beauty in their final moments in the air. She wondered if the leaves knew that once they landed on the ground, the only life they will know is the one of pathetic tumbling along the park floor, being walked all over, and rotting. The same life that she knew all too well, she thought to herself with a smirk.

At last, she found herself in front of the wooden bench, and once she sat down, that was it. Her life, before that point on the bench ceased to exist. Her future beyond the time in the park became irrelevant. The events leading up to this moment in time, where the young woman is shivering from everything but the cold, is immaterial. This is just a window in time that closes its blinds to the past and future.

The woman and the bench are engulfed by a deep silence, the air surrounding her is eerily still.

The universe had tied her to this place in time, and the world had made it very clear that the events of the day were inevitable. She looked up at the perfect blue sky and once again blinked back the tears that were trying to ruin her act of perfect composure. With her chin held high, she knew the man sitting next to her on the bench could see through her fake demeanour.

His back was to her, she knew that he would rather look anywhere but in her direction. The thought brought with it an overwhelming sense of nausea. All she wanted was to look into his beautiful blue eyes, and to once again be the reason behind his warm laugh and smile.

“Hey,” she whispered. He didn't move. “Listen, I...” she continued, “I'm so..”
“Don't,” he interrupted, without turning to look at her. His muscles were stiff and he was as motionless as a statue. Only his hair betrayed the stillness, being ruffled by the cold wind, leaving a chaotic mess of beautiful brown on his head.
Under different circumstances, she would have reached over and laughed, fixing his hair to her liking. She smiled at the thought, aware that he couldn’t see it, and her hand lifted impulsively. He straightened immediately, looking over his shoulder; the woman gasped, for in his eyes, all she could see was burning rage and hatred.
He growled, “If you touch me,” but the rest of his sentence never reached her ears. Maybe he never finished it, maybe the wind drowned out his hurtful words, or maybe her heart refused to let her mind hear them. His sigh interrupted her train of thought. “This is over. There is no 'us' anymore.”

“No,” the unintentional whisper escaped her lips. She couldn’t believe how little control she had over herself; she was being impulsive, speaking from within, and not from her logical head.

This angered him more, “No?” It looked like he didn’t know whether to get up and leave, or stay sitting where he was. It hurt her to watch him now, she could see in his physique the turmoil he was suffering inside. She wanted to touch him and to comfort him. Her finger tips ached for his skin, but she kept her hands to herself. He was vulnerable, and she felt that the tiniest movement could scare him away.
Slowly, he began to calm down and she knew him well enough to understand that he had solved his inner conflict, and come to terms with the unacceptable reality she had placed him in. With his mood shift, a glimmer of hope reignited within her and the dull colours surrounding her entire outside world seemed brighter, and the silence seemed almost bearable.

“Do you think,” he began to say, “that you could ever love someone more than you love yourself? Do you think that you could ever grow out of your selfishness, and immaturity?”

All hope disappeared as she sat in awe. She had never seen him this way before, calm and collected, so sure of everything. She had prepared herself for his anger, and for his pardon. She never imagined that she would need to prepare herself for the end. The dumbfounded look on her face signalled him to keep talking.

“Oh, what now you can’t answer me? Here I’ll do it for you. The answer is no, you will never love any one more than yourself. Even if you ever learned to give it, you don’t believe that anyone is good enough or even deserves your unconditional love. No, you will never grow up and out of this eternal selfishness and immaturity.”
His eyes almost glittered as he spoke, he was mocking her. “You. Are. Pathetic,” he said painfully, almost as an afterthought. Shocked, the woman let out a sob, for she could no longer keep up with her emotions. The last words he spoke took the man by surprise too, and he reached over and placed his hand on her abdomen. The woman looked down at the familiar touch and the sobs came louder, her tears blinded her completely. “What have you done?” he asked over and over, emotionlessly. The question wasn’t directed to her, it was directed to the world, the place he had once loved, but was now forced to hate. So she never answered him, she just sat there crying, looking down at the sidewalk that seemed to pity her current state. The more she cried, the more his anger seemed to swell. “Shut up,” he snarled, into her ear. She could feel the moistness on his lips, he had been crying too.

She peered up at him, their faces only centimetres apart now, and she withheld her cry to satisfy him. “Do not speak, just listen,” he said, his breath smelt so sweet and familiar. “What we had before, was not a life, it was a routine.” He paused, to think or to breath, the woman wasn’t sure. “We were never perfect, but we were always happy. Never rich, but we had money. We might not be meant for each other, but we do belong together.” At this, he almost leaned in and kissed her, but he was
suddenly reminded of what she had done.

He pulled her in closer, held her tighter, his hand never left her stomach, and now he was almost clawing at her abdomen. His breathing was harsh, and when he spoke next, his voice was a raspy whisper. “We could have had more than a routine. The baby, our baby, would have meant that we would finally have a life. You and me, together, would have had something to live for. Your future wouldn’t have played out how you wanted it too, this I understand. Your stupid selfishness dismissed the idea that maybe life would have played out better.” A tear escaped his cloudy eyes, he was thinking of what they could have had. It was unbearable to look at him, so she tried to look away, but his other hand was quick to pull her face back. He had lost all sense of control, for he was squeezing her face. The woman, stifling a groan, let tears of pain roll down her cheeks. “You killed it,” he moaned, “you killed our baby, our future, our life. You killed everything with your selfishness.” Another
pause, before he finished, “you killed us.”

The window that had once blocked off the past sent flashes through the woman’s head. Memories her mind had suppressed came rushing back. Days she spent with the man on the beach. The laughter they shared. The comfort they felt. Their best moments and
their worst. Making love to him into the early hours. The abortion clinic...

A scream parted her lips, and the man pulled away, startled.

The window remained open, however, and this time the woman witnessed the future. Images that she trained herself not to think about flooded every corner of her mind. A wedding, a ring. A baby shower, a baby crib. Her vows, and his vows. A baby boy, a baby girl, twins. Their life filled with happiness.

A sad smile crossed her face, and she looked up from her reverie. Paralyzed from emotion, her mind took a while to finally process the man’s figure, walking away. Time had inconveniently sped up. She couldn’t muster the strength to stand up and go after him, to fight for his love. He was leaving, and if she didn’t stop him now, he would be gone forever.

“Forgive me,” she finally managed to sob, her eyes begging.

He stopped for a moment, before he continued on his way. Over his shoulder the wind carried his whispered reply, “Never.” Her heart beat once more and she heard it echo into the infinite silence. She realized that she will forever be alone.

Au Revoir Monsieur… Stay and watch me walk

You can turn your back on me, but I’ll be the one to walk away faster. Watch me, and you’ll see me disappear; listen and you’ll hear my footsteps fade. I’m not scared, I’m terrified. I’m petrified but I won’t ever let it show, and you know me well enough, for behind proud eyes I’ll remain haunted. I knew I couldn’t count on this, it’s always hit, and never a miss. This game everyone plays, I was always MVP, but I changed my game plan, rearranged my strategy, now I’m stuck on a losing streak. And my teammates won’t take me back. I’ve been replaced because of all the determination I lacked. Or maybe I possessed too much that it was no longer viewed as willpower, but instead a great weakness. So Monsieur, I’ll inhale a breath that I’ve never breathed around you before. Maybe I’ll taste the air differently now that I know the powers you hold. Or maybe the wind will blow, and send your smell elsewhere, maybe nature will set me free from the entrapment you planned and have clearly perfected. Take pity on me, for I am restless and vulnerable. I am strong and independent, but equally needy and reliant. At this moment in time, I am stuck reminiscing about yesterday, my walk to the park that went uninterrupted by thoughts of you. I know what you are selling is fake, I have come to understand that it is all an act; feigning an interest because I was a worthy customer. Put your game face on Mr. Salesman and open up that oversized trench coat. I will stand back, I will suppress a shudder, because deep down I know I’d be over reacting. But I need you to reassure me. I need to believe that you won’t reveal a knife or a gun, but that you possess what you say you do. Just show me the inside of that coat, let me see all the gadgets you claim to have. I swear I won’t inspect them, I don’t care if they are made out of plastic or if they are genuine... if what you sell is fake or real. I just need to know that on the surface you are honest because I only ever have the courage to go skin deep.

Dear Diery.....

January 6th, 1998
Dear Diery,
Tanisha thinks she so cool. She is mean to me. In school she always tells on me. This is why I haet her. She is moveing. Im sad and hapi at the same time. I have a boyfiend his name is Kane! I have folen in love with him. Today I am sad bekus I am bord. I have nothing to do! My brather is bothring me also he got me in trubel 3 times.

My first ever diary entry was written on January 6th, 1998. Even at the age of seven I found the need to write about how I felt, what I thought, and who or what made me feel that way. I have always wrote about what I was going through because I hoped that seeing it in black and white might make me truly believe what I know, or it would end up telling me what I don’t. This remains true, and to the present day and I am exactly like the little girl I was back in grade one. Flipping through and reading all of my journal entries, nothing much has changed; I now have a broader vocabulary and all of my elementary school exercises to help with the spelling and grammar, but when I am irritated, miserable, or happy, I still turn to my trusted blank paper and my handy dandy pen. But without a doubt, ten years from now I will open up my journal to today’s date, and once again get a laugh out of my terrible spelling and lack of detail. I’ll probably be disgusted by my grammar and sentence structure, as well.
My greatest fear in writing is not being rejected for my lack of flow and organization, because it has been a lifelong battle to improve in those areas and they are insecurities that I have confidence in. It isn’t because I’m afraid of writing something personal, and having people judge it harshly. What terrifies me is the idea of writing something personal and having the reader see all the invisible ink on my page, of all the things that I subliminally say.
I understand that we all build up castle-like walls to guard ourselves; we all dig a moat and fill it with dirty water. We put so much effort into strengthening our defenses, but in the end, we always have a drawbridge, and we manage to keep the gate open just long enough to let the enemy in. My drawbridge is my writing, my enemies are my close friends, and when my writing gets deep I open the gate and invite everyone onto my territory. Once this has happened, I just let them do as they please on my castle grounds. The invitation is an act of confidence, but it is in my confidences that I am insecure. I never know what the enemy is capable of doing, once they are in so deep. I’m terrified of people seeing a side of me that I only show when I write. I feel vulnerable when others analyze me, and I know that in my writing, a lot of what I keep hidden pours out through my words. Perhaps that is why I now shy away from the prospect of a career in writing.
Growing up, I always wanted to be a journalist. I was envious of their talent, their ability to recreate what they're eyes see on a blank and expressionless piece of paper. I always tried to mirror their writing, reflect their brilliance into my works; mostly I wrote opinion pieces, but I found my opinions were uninteresting. So I started to write poems about forests and beaches, places that I always wished I could magically deport too. I always wished I could stop time in my poetic destinations and be alone to think, breath, and not just listen, but really hear.
As a writer, I never challenged myself, and only recently have I come to realize that I need to write, just as I need to breathe. The blank paper has always been my personal support system; my writing has often ended up being my mentor. I need my words to come alive when I read them, and distract me from reality.

"What's Wrong?" .... Everything

We all know the feeling. When our stomachs turn, and we experience an almost desensitizing feeling run from our gut and up our throats. Our hands get tingly, our legs go weak and we just KNOW something is wrong.

When this happens, you can only hope you have something to help you take your mind off of whatever it is that you were trying to avoid and remain immune too.
How about the times when you’re sitting there in the dark, literally and metaphorically? You're alone to your thoughts. You don’t know what’s wrong, you can’t see anything that could be wrong, and no matter how long you're sitting in this darkness, your eyes cannot adjust to the lack of light. The darkness is soooo heavy that you can't make out any sort of shapes. You feel like you're surrounded by nothing, all alone. You are going to be the death of yourself, again literally and metaphorically.

The only times you can escape this void is when you look back into the past at the mistakes, or inactions you had committed. But it’s the past that has placed you into this hole in the first place, isn’t it?

So you sit there, remembering, recalling, and replaying; over and over. And each time you do that tingly feeling returns and more powerfully with each new wave of memory. Each time you come back to your empty reality, the darkness is even heavier, and darker. You realize that as much of an escape going back into the past is, it is only ever a momentary relief, for upon your return to your aloneness and thoughts, you are even more hurt.

The trouble with this is, you can still be happy. This isn’t an issue of sorrow and joy. This feeling deals with the cumbersome emotions you carry on your shoulders that get harder to deal with, the more you try to do it alone.

Your momentary happiness is just that: momentary. And the second it’s over, it is replaced by the feeling you knew would come: drudgery.
You begin to conclude that being upset hurts, and being happy hurts more. You can’t win.

So you pull back into your turtle shell and try to peer off into the distance. You keep your focus blurred, because you know that if your vision sharpens you will see truth starring right back at you.

You made a mistake. You tried to fix it. You gave up when it got hard. Truth is telling you, that you fail.

So what now? No matter what you do you can’t help yourself.

You’re letting time deal you a better hand, and you’re hoping that this time, you fool your opponent; because clearly you can’t fool yourself.

Liar, Liar. Pants on Fire.

What makes us different? Individuals? What makes us better than the person standing next to us? Is it how we talk? How we dress? Is it the number of zeros in our bank account? How about the stories we tell, I mean, our life experiences, that’s surly what makes us better than the next person. Or is it our crazyness that defines diversity. Could I ever say I know I’m better then you because of who I know? Or, who I don’t know…. Who I want you to think I know.

There are people who create alternate universes, people with multiple personality disorders; people who are deranged and possibly dangerous. We call those people crazy. They, to us, are not normal.

However, do we not all day dream? We create ideas in our minds that, at times, are contrary to the concept of ‘the real world’. This idea of a daydream, the visionary fantasy that is experienced while awake, is it not an alternate universe? And what happens if it is taken as a reality? What if we told stories of our daydreams as if they had really happened? There are people out there who do just that. We call those people liars. They, to us, are normal.

I mean, we all lie a little don’t we? We extend the truth to make it more appeasing to our audience. Add a witty remark to our story and then claim to have said it, when really it never crossed our mind when the incident was actually occurring. Sometimes, our listeners accept these false statements, and move on, never thinking back to what it was you said.

I’m no doctor. I do not understand the way our minds work.

I have realized, from experience however, that sometimes, I recall statements that were marked irrelevant by my mind when they were first spoken, but then at a later event sparked permanently into my memory.

For example, a person says “I killed an alligator over the weekend.” I’d think, “wow, cool,” and then move on to the next cool story, usually dismissing the alligator story. And exactly one week later this same person says, “I was in Alaska two weekends ago.” This is when we pull out our common knowledge and logically conclude that two weekends ago was the SAME weekend. I set aside in my brain that these two facts are completely conflicting; there is no freaking way that there was a free roaming alligator in Alaska…

But when do we accuse someone of a deception. Where do we draw the line between a petty lie told, because the truth would hurt, and a complete intentionally told tale?( And when I say complete, I mean detailed to the dotted I’s and crossed T’s.) Would that not be the same as drawing a fine line between a crazy person and a liar?

When can we point our stubby, ignorant fingers and say, “what you are saying is a lie. You are a liar” when it is in our human nature to, at times, avoid the truth.

How about, when the lie is so far-fetched or when it’s so poorly planned out. So pathetic that it makes us cringe as we listen to it. Sometimes impossible to listen too, so we pick out every little aspect our minds deem ‘false’. What do we do in this case? Do we call the person out? What do we say? How do we deal with something when it HURTS to believe, but kills all the same to call the truth?

What defines an unhealthy liar?

How about the notion that they are lying without any motive that is aware to others? Or when lying becomes a lifestyle one must live by NOT because they dug themselves so deep, but because they have become entirely compulsive?

It is still to be determined if pathological liars have complete control over their lies and whether or not it is always consciously done.

“Pathological lying is falsification entirely disproportionate to any discernible end in view, may be extensive and very complicated, and may manifest over a period of years or even a lifetime”

So in a way we’re all crazy, pathalogical liars. We all have that one guy or girl we try to ditch out on a date with. Come up with insanely pathetic excuses. And we see their eyes light up when they recognize our lies. We sometimes stumble over our words as we try to save ourselves from stupid lies. We beat ourselves up for it for DAYS because we cannot believe that was the best we could come up with.

In this case, your intentions are clear to you, and to others, too. You did not want to go out with this person, and that is completely explainable.

How about the people who make up complete lives, people, locations, events that never happened? Lies that do not alter any past events, or any future outcomes. Lies that are clearly pointless and irrevocable….

Even in the midst of telling a lie, one can convince himself that it isn't really a lie or that it's for the other person's good. But in reality, a lie only contains selfish motivations. People just try to put a good face on it.

After all, most of the statements are ridiculously easy to disprove. To conclude this rant i guess I need to say, making such melodramatic and misleading claims may or may not be pathological, but it certainly isn't a sign that liars have a healthy relationship with reality.