Archive for October, 2014

One of my friends is getting married. She has been dating this guy for few years and has now decided to call him a husband and wake up next to him every day for the rest of her life. But marriage for most people is the ultimate step as it is for my friend. It wasn’t so much of “I can’t wait to live another day without you in my life’ but more ” so now what “.

I don’t know if couples chose to end up with an ” ultimatum ” or this reality is the general truth for everyone else but I know if I ever get married that I won’t wait till we are “accustomed” to being “us” that we wait for that no point of return that most guys dread. I am afraid of being used to ‘needing’ my man as society in its profound intricate ways has shown me in the past that I am alone in this battle of “more”. But is it fair to settle for marriage like a stage of progression? Is marriage the tool to fix that loose end in a relationship? Would marriage guarantee that he too won’t leave me alone?

My uncle was an alcoholic and his wife says that when they had their first child, he became a ” new” man. Getting married hoping the “kids” might make us better people is a bargain I can’t settle with. Things that should change after getting married are the simple things like your address; not your priorities. I should have been a priority long before he married me and he should have been mine by the time he came part of my prayers.

I am a cynic when it comes to marriage and I believe I am usually misunderstood as being naive. But I would love to build a life together with my partner and grow old to be one and different. I think the union of such partners starts long before they ever knew they wanted to get married. They say that marriage is more important to a woman because it requires and “insures” the man to settle for just one woman. I am no special woman but I hope to not ever be beguiled with socially accepted terms as such and end up with a robot perse.

I am a sucker for romance even when I have had some bumps on that alley but I am not afraid to want more; for I believe more isn’t exactly unattainable or too much to ask. More is to want him like the way you savor the last bite of a cookie; you know you can have more and probably feel it doesn’t get better than this but it does. Life with him will be where you wake up safe; even if volcanoes erupt for in the end of it all,  you KNOW he will  still be there. It is serene to want him like he is …and marriage or not you are one and more.

Marriage isn’t a pass card that gives us the go to ask for more. I just hope it doesn’t become the only key to a box of happiness. I have never been married so you might think I’m in no place to judge but I am not judging. I am simply putting my fears into words and that always makes sense. 

I hate this bed. I hate how wide it is as if someone could have been there. I don’t know how my bed could single handedly disrupt my sanity but it does; every morning!

I hate the way the sheets feel heavier than the blanket. Blue is my favorite color but not when it comes to this sheets. It is as if the life was sucked out of the serene beauty that the color depicted. Do these textile factories ever consider the hormonal implications of their color combinations? I doubt it. I wish I could describe the color patterns on these sheets but the headache is already nauseating.

And the pillow???😈 just pure evil. There is no consistency when it comes to the texture. I feel as though it works hard to make my  life more miserable. I wish this pillow could talk for I know it doesn’t listen. At least one of us would know why we don’t seem to get along.

I sleep on two mattresses which I bet is where the hostility arises. I wouldn’t have added a second one if the old one just stayed the same. But no, it had to change like every thing else. It had to develop patches of metals that I swear felt like were working extra hard to wake me up. So I being the sane, mattress-loving , woman that I am didn’t even throw it away for all the treasonous acts. I bought his friend and kept them on top of one another to make him feel appreciated for the world he had prepared me to every morning was not thankful it had me. But the new friend sided with his “kind” and I still wake up exhausted from adjusting my tiny back to fit to a one meter wide mattress.

My bed teaches me lessons that are bitter to swallow.
It won’t matter if I owned a California king size bed with silk cashmere sheets, if I can’t feel like home. Closing my eyes won’t make me sleep if my mind doesn’t stop ruminating over ifs and maybes. A bed is as good as the company that sleeps next to you. My blue sheets don’t seem as bad when I’m hearing a distant lullaby that calms my nerves like the vodka shots still wet on my tongue. Right then, for few minutes and few hours I find my niche and the world could turn upside down but all I know is I’m not alone.

Does a heartbreak have a sound?
I hear a shatter with each word unsaid, with lies that engulf the depths of who we once were. In realization of the future that waits me I am haunted by the footsteps that trod my past and besiege my existence. with each day passing by with no notice of your repentance, I die a little.

What color is a heartbreak?
I tell you it’s not black. It’s illusory to assume sadness or a loss of love is like a dark alley. My heart sinks into a deepest of blues and has frozen in the whitest of ices. My heart is pummeled into melancholy everyday as you recite my mistakes. My melancholy is as yellow as the setting sun; bright with a seeming warmth that’s ephemeral.

Does a heartbreak have a smell?
The Tommy Hilfiger that you wore last time I was happy and you smiled too often is etched to my nostrils. The dirty orange T-shirt you wore till it faded to white smelled of home. The scent of your wet hair is addictively personal. The moist sweat dripping down your masculine torso is like a pheromone to my needs. I won’t ever wash the blue sweater that you gave me even though the odor remains only in memory and your scent has evaded it with time. I smell of perfumed, earthly, virility in remembrance of you.

Last week I sat in a cafe and ordered caramel machiato without consciously knowing its attachments to my taste buds. With the first sip, tears filled my eyes insensibly. I kept praying to myself, I am better than my friends who still latch on to a memory of a deceiving a man that was never worthy. I pleaded with myself, I am an exception, for I can’t be this low. People can’t always leave me.
Caramel machiato, the lemony after taste of your lips all come back to me in fleshed flavors.

Everyday there is a novel crack to an already ravaged heart. The seconds, hours, days and months that make up for my simile of living are all wrapped up in one organ.

Tell me now, how many times does a heart break?