The Well of Imagination

I try to chase after my heart before someone steps on it, but it always seems to run faster than my brain.

I spend a lot of time on the other side of the river, looking back.

Seeing you, standing there, in the rushing water.

Eyes wide, uncertain of what to do, where to go.

The river’s never the same twice, of course, but I’ve crossed it. Felt the icy current slide against my skin as I fought my way through. 

Alone, but for words shouted from the wrong side, calling me back — not forward.

Or down, to the water.

But that voice was never strong for me.

Not as strong for me as it is for you.

Your despair — I can taste it on my lips as you keep standing there, crying as the water pummels you again and again.

I can see, sometimes, that you want to give in — let the river carry you far away into oblivion.

But that’s why

I spend a lot of time on the other side of the river, looking back.

Because I never had a voice on the right side, calling me forward. Only whispers of people long gone, too fragile to help me.

But I’ll be that voice for you. I’ll call out to you so you know there is an end.

But it always gets worse before it gets better.

And I can’t carry you through the river.

Because on the other side of the river, there’s another river. Not quite the same, but still a river. And I have to cross my own rivers.

Again.

And again.

But listen for me. Listen for my voice. I’ll be there, on the other side of the river, looking back.

I’ll be the first hand to pull you out and tell you

It’s going to be okay.

But only you can choose to listen.

Sometimes I think I’ll be okay — just friends.

But then you come back.

And

Sweep me off my feet.

Knock the breath out of me.

Steal my sanity.

And

Leave.

Struggling to stand.

Struggling to breath.

Struggling to think.

And

I’m alone again, thinking maybe I’ll be okay one day — just friends.

Relationships are positive correlations. The stronger the friendship, the stronger the relationship.

But somehow, we’re different.

The stronger our friendship, the faster our old ties dissolve. I know it has to happen, but it still makes me sad.

Somehow, we’re different.

Tu me demande, « Comment te dire adieu? »

Je te reponde, «Ne me dit pas adieu. »

Je voudrais t’avoir pour tourjours.

Mais voudrais-tu m’avoir toujours?

Je sais que tu est le mieux homme qui j’ai dans ma vie maintenant. 

Mais je sais aussi que je ne suis pas le mieux femme qui tu as dans sa vie - maintenant et puis.

C’est une situation sans l’espoir. J’espere contre l’espoir.

Donc, quand tu me demande, «Comment te dire adieu? »

Je te reponde, « Si tu m’aime, ne me dit rien adieu. »

Mon coeur continue, « Mais tu ne m’aimera jamais. Je suis ton ami et pas de plus. Alors, dit-moi adieu, mon amour, dit-moi adieu. Pour ton amour, ton souci, dit-moi adieu.»

He’s the one who makes my heart beat faster.

But you’re the one who made my heart.

He’s the one who makes my thoughts whirl.

But you’re the one who made me think.

He’s the one who makes me happy.

But you’re the one who gives me joy.

He’s the one who makes me brave.

But you’re the one who can truly protect me.

He’s the one who would do anything for me.

But you’re the one who already sacrificed it all.

He’s the one who loves me.

But you’re love itself.

He’s the one.

But you’re the only.

I think hope hurts more than rejection.

It’s quite easy to understand where you need to go after rejection, but being suspended in uncertainty because you dare to hope — that’s hard.

Most of me knows it’s impossible. If it wasn’t impossible, it would be improbable. If it wasn’t improbable, it would be unworkable. Our circumstances are simply too far away, yet I still hope.

So, this is me, suspended.

Silly me.

When I type a single letter, seven people come up. My eyes see their faces, but my heart sees their stories.

The first, I love, but let go of.

The second, I love, but cannot be with.

The third, a wonderful friend, whose struggles I take as mine.

The fourth, a brother, more devoted than I imagined.

The fifth, a sister not by blood but life, my helper and adviser.

The sixth, another sister through life, my comforter and shoulder to cry on.

The seventh, a friend I did not think would become dear, but brought close through crisis.

Each one of them is dear to me, and I have the greatest “J” of them all to thank for bringing them into my lives.

When I type a single letter, eight people come up. My eyes see seven faces, and my heart sees seven stories.

My soul sees one savior.