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“Look for small ways to be creative.”
“In order to success, your desire for success should be greater than your fear of failure.”
— Robert Brault (via satea)
I changed my pillow sheets yesterday and I couldn’t help but examine one
of my pillows. I’ve had it since I moved here. Three years.
My pillow is covered in tear stains - I guess they wouldn’t come out in the washing
machine because of the mascara. Maybe each of the stains was for a
different man, but probably some of them were for the same. Now that I
think back, you could probably categorize the tearstains according to their
respective provocateurs Guy 1, Guy 2, Guy 3, and Guy 4.
There were more than four guys, but only four of them were whole numbers;
only four of them left impressive sized puddles on my pillow. The rest of
the guys were more like decimals, transitory units from one main guy to
the other, represented by a teardrop or two on the fabric.
As I was examining the pillow, which suddenly became to me an analogy of my love life, suddenly I felt overwhelmed by this sense of sympathy for
myself back then. I felt like the little me who cried on this pillow is my
little sister, and I wanted to hug her and stroke her hair. “There there.
None of these guys were worth it – I know it retrospect. None of these
guys were worth even one teardrop of yours, little sister.”
Then I thought of myself five years from now, and how I will have a similar moment then thinking back to me now and wanting to comfort me. By then I will know that the men currently in my life are no good, and I might even be happy with someone who is. I decided to be strong and to try not to cry
because of any future Guy X, but especially not because of my next fiasco,
Guy 5, and from what I can tell so far that’s going to be you.
I’ve lived a life of building significance,
into the smallest everyday interactions with men;
Smiles in neighborhood cafe’s.
Same tall soy sweetened Americano orders.
A coincidentally turning head.
Eyes meeting in a mirror,
or a bicycle stuck in traffic.
The hand brushing off mine on a swaying crowded muni.
Somebody walking beside me,
turning into the same unwashed-clothes smelling street.
These incidents were the starting point for my fantasies.
Over and over, I went through the same process,
imagining what could have been.
Returning to these happy scenarios,
later as if they were memories;
replaying the specific events,
even when the original features of him
had become hazy.
but if she claimed the right escape, into her especial inanimate world,
Then she must be on her side, and be indulgent into his own city fantasies.
-By: Yours Truly (02/12)