Urban Picnic

It was a cold night. I had my favorite boots on and I felt okay--no, I felt great with the way I looked. My emotionally and physically long day had been plain out tiring. My fingers were sore from the guitar strings I manipulated, my body shook with the free coffee I consumed in order to over-compensate for my exhaustion, and the thrill of being paid attention to overwhelmed my thoughts. He laced unimportant questions with pertinent ones and sent them to my phone throughout the course of the day and supposed himself to be clever. I knew something was going to happen at six o' clock that Sunday.

I sat in his truck while he talked on the phone secretively and quickly about something important.

"There's no traffic."

I noticed.

My mind flashed back to a couple weeks before when we were trapped in the moving parking lot of the 15 freeway. His face lit up with excitement about some future plan and I realized that this, Sunday night at six o' clock, was it.

"We were supposed to have an urban picnic!"

Urban Picnic (n.): As one is sitting in traffic with nothing else to do, sandwhiches and beverages are to be provided just as a picnic might occur in a grassy park.

I might point out at this point that the music we listened to was everything I enjoyed. Music is my life, my feeling, my expression. We pulled into an empty parking lot as an alternative to the freeway and sat in the back of his truck to enjoy our picnic. The CD came to an end and began to replay.

"Wait. Pause. Stay right there." He leaned over and kissed me and jumped from the bed of the truck to reach inside for the CD.

His eyes fascinated me. They were large annd excited and alive more than ever that night and I found myself willingly sinking into them. I hoped he didn't mind. He then came around the side of the truck and held the CD in front of his face, his eyes just above the sharp edge. I looked down.

"Can I be the boyfriend in your indie movie?"

Words escaped me. I didn't have any breath. I don't think I'm capable of forgetting that face or those eyes (nor do I want to) at that moment. He was eager. He lingered and needed a response. I shook my head. Yes. Yes, you can. Yes, I want you to be. I hadn't felt that safety, that assurance in such a long time. I don't think he will ever quite understand just how much it meant to me to be cared for. After a life of being sat in a corner, of being told cop out after cop out, finally someone that meant the words he said and the actions he presented looked me in the eyes and told me the truth.

He disappeared to put the music back on and came back to sit next to me. He grabbed my hand and looked at me with an ineffable look that.

"Can I be your boyfriend in real life too?" This time I laughed and said, "Of course."

He smiled and kissed me.

"Guess what I just did."

"What?"

"Kissed my girlfriend."

Oh the safety and security in that night just three months ago.

Beautiful.

Can We...

Do you think we can just run away from all that we know?

It sounds rather convincing.
Let's just be happy.

Hey love.

I started to understand yesterday.
I started to understand why you say the things you say to me. I would take away your scars if I could. I would kiss away the pain you went through if I could. I would do anything to erase that past--if only I could. My shoulders sunk with my heart when I held your hand as you talked about your vices and the details of your heartache. I didn't show it, but I wanted to cry. I wanted to hold you. I wanted you to break down. I wanted to break down with you. I wanted to be close to you. I didn't show it.
I know that feeling. I feel as though I know where you're coming from and it's all too familiar because we've seen a similar darkness that cannot be faked. And love, I get it. I get why you die everytime I give into my selfishness. I understand because I felt the same thing and you were only talking about the past. What if it was now? I would hurt so much more that I think I might not be able to handle it. I do that to you. I cause you to hurt. I'm sorry, love. I am sorry.

And what she did to you was incredibly awful. I hate that. You deserve much more. I want to be much more because you are incredible and I've never felt as taken care of as I do now.
Thank you.
Thank you for being incredible.

I don't want to hurt you. You're worth more than the pain I cause.

Your creativity, your dedication, your inspiration; it all makes me melt. You make me melt.
And I want to say goodbye to my vices because of that. Because you're worth more than that.

Oh God, lead us.

So be it.

These Thoughts.

I'm writing a novel that is requiring me to delve into my old journals.
This is what I found:

A king who has wept
and lost his stolen path
lies helpless on his
cross.

This crucifixion is
the result of
unreasonable hate.

Will he still love those
who have hated?
For unreasonable love
is strong.

This precious king cries
out in pain
to cleanse those
who have hated.

But still he says,
"I am your friend."

Service.

I'm a writer.
I can pass the whole day away just by writing
in journals
and documents;
on napkins
and the backs of receipts.
I can fade into my fiction and lose touch of reality
at the point of my pen,
at the mere touch of my keys.

Do I run?
Do I sprint away from the real events,
real emotions of my every day?
Most likely, I run.
Most likely, I fly.
Most likely,
I'm weak and don't want to even look in the face
of a truth,
in the face of my truth.
My truth that even in my strongest points,
there's something that's lost.

I write
and I lose myself
to the thoughts of my pen,
to the people,
the places,
the love that I create.
But is it really an escape,
this thing that I create?
Maybe it's an outlet,
a way to feel,
to think,
to exist,
to make a mark in this world.
I want to encourage, to stretch,
to exalt something more.
Love, its therapeutic.
It's a change, it's a movement
that I'm writing and creating and searching for.

I want to know, I want to learn
what is going on in the world
because my heart is truly seeking,
truly loving.
Darling, ignorance is not bliss.

I don't agree.
I don't agree!
I want to be in this world
because maybe instead of praying and praying,
maybe I'm the action, the answer,
the vehicle for that promise.

And maybe this is the way to die to me.
Me-
who is living, who confessed that addiction is not dead.

Oh stream of consciousness,
you truly bring me to my knees.
Your cackle, your endless tackle
makes me see how truly wretched my thoughts are.
That inside this brain of mine, the ideas i have,
i am ashamed to call mine-
sometimes.

I'm tired of logic, of rationale.
Give me emotional appeal.
I learn from it.
I thrive from it.
Please just give me the emotional appeal.

It's time to get up, time to stand up
because this is something i feel.

No, it's not about me.
It cannot be about me.
I feel most at ease when I'm helping someone else
and the blame is not on me.
I feel at peace when I'm actively involved in today,
in other people,
because love is all I can give.

Oh love, it's all i can give.

And I don't find this funny anymore.

I'm finding that

you're my favorite person to be around.

A Place

By any stretch of the imagination, I might want to travel to Africa. I might want to go to China. I might want to go to India, Australia, and Ireland. Can I go to any of them? To all of them?
At the forefront of my thoughts, I want to help the children...anywhere. I absolutely love the impact one person can have in another person's life--especially children. They are precious. They are innocent. The are incredibly susceptible to anything they see, hear, and therefore experience.
When I was in Tanzania--scratch that--
Before I went to Tanzania, I prayed and hoped that just one child would cling to me. I wanted to be moved by one of their stories; just one. What I didn't expect, though, was to be moved to tears by dozens and dozens of sweet, sweet smiles. From their attempts at English to their dances to the bruises on their faces, I melted and fell deeply in love with them. One in particular fell asleep in my arms. She had been crying and the bruises and cuts across her face suggested that she had been abused. It was then and there that I knew that I wanted to hold every one of them. I knew they needed that tangible love. I sang to her--well, over her. Amazing Grace poured from my lips as tears rolled out of her eyes. I wanted to start my life again to dedicate it to moments exactly like this one.
Without thinking, I would go back to Tanzania in an instant to find her, to hold her and sing to her as she lay safely in my arms. Now using my imagination, I want to go anywhere. Children are everywhere and that are all the same in every place.
Let me hold them. Let me use this voice that I have been given to sing sweet words, sweet melodies of love into their ears. Let me take the time to personally go to the places I see on commercials that plead for an insignificant amount of money that masks the true desperate need.
Oh, just let me love.

And beyond that, I want to write about them. I want to tell stories about them. People don't truly believe that their stories are real and that their lives are genuinely precious, desperately needy.