there in the first place. If goodbye feels like liberation, then the
person waving must have been your stern prison warden.
24 days into the year, and I'm writing my first heartfelt piece - finally
unblocked. I'm making myself a mug of hot chocolate at 4 in the morning,
as a tribute to the days gone by - a relic and maybe a reminder of she who
waved goodbye. Some people are victims of pain, but I choose to benefit
from it. 'Cause when you see life from the other side of pain, your untidy
kitchenette begins to outclass the Ballagio Penthouse suite as you make
that nostalgic mug of hot chocolate. People can offer you forgiveness for
your transgressions but if it's redemption you seek, you have to find that
for yourself - make one like a cup of hot beverage, 'cause no one can make
your redemption for you.
Somehow my voice is back, yelling with creative gusto. That it took this
time to return goes to prove I'm human after all, and must have done
something right by the gods this time. But this voice came with a price –
it came riding on the wings of guilt, pain, and an ounce of regret. It
charged in like a psychotic ex girlfriend, beating the rebound girlfriend
blue-black and tossing her out – it came saying, "don't worry baby, she
wasn't right for you, and now you've got me to care of you, and this time
I promise never to walk away if only you promise never to call her again".
Am I happy she's back? Hell, yeah. We're like Bonnie and Clyde – me
without her is like a classic Western without John Wayne – like a cowboy
without spurs on his boots.
But that doesn't indicate the absence of hurt as I wave goodbye to the
rebound. 'Cause inasmuch as I'm glad a distraction has been gutted out of
my life like an inflamed appendix, I'm worried that I'm not hurting as
humans are supposed to – I'm worried that the cycle is in motion – the
pattern – break up with your heart, and reunite with your mind. It kinda
hurts that the end of a human relationship for me usually marks the
beginning of a whirlwind romance with my muse. It seems like my creativity
is a psychotic, jealous, rage-filled lover who abhors my emotional
dalliances with females of the human species. Sometimes it seems like
she's all I've got – and sometimes in the ominous boulevards of my
thoughts, I think she's the only one that gets me.
Lovers and maybe friends will often leave you, but a soul-mate will always
find its way back to you. The word, whether written or performed has
always been my soul-mate; possessive she may be, but she's always there
for me – she bears no grudges no matter how often I mistreat her; yet
sometimes like a woman she flies into a rage at the slightest suspicion of
unfaithfulness, but one thing she never does is leave me when I need a
friend. She's my comforter, confidant, and most of all, my therapist.
But if goodbye doesn't hurt, why do I run to the couch of my trusted
therapist as soon as the train leaves the station?