insecure, as in not secured, which is to say I feel my security is inadequate.
When something is secure it is steadfast, protected and sure, the door
wonít swing open on a sharp turn. My girlfriend hates metaphors. She
says she would rather we just shut up and do it. And I think to myself,
do what? Make things happen, she says. Make what things happen? If I
was secure enough to turn my back, if I felt it was safe, I would make
a world for myself where anything could happen.
She says why discuss the ways we love?
Isnít it enough that we do? She thought I was talking about her father.
She says we need people out there who just haul-ass and I can only think
she is trying to talk about me. So I ask myself, what havenít you done?
When have you spoken when life said jump? And the list is immense. Iím
insecure, so I canít help but wonder if sheíd rather love someone with
a smaller list. I call them cowboys. Because Iím jealous, because I
donít want her to like cowboys. I want her to like me, only me. If it
werenít for me loving her I wouldnít think about cowboys.
I ask her if she agrees that I have a
balance in the think/do duality. She says yes, but youíre more on the
thinker side. Iím insecure, so I only hear more thinker and not the
yes which affirms my own opinion of myself. When we first met she said
she was attracted to me because I seemed intelligent. I was writing
and it looked like I had something to say. That made me feel good, because
I do have something to say, but what do I have to do? I donít have to
do anything, no one does, aside from facing the consequences of their
actions or lack of actions.
I know she loves me. I know I take things
far too personally. I donít want to be that boring guy, I want to be
that fun guy. I fear she no longer thinks Iím fun, so I say ďWhat do
you mean more thinker? I sing, I dance.Ē I want to say more, go on about
what Iíve done, but my girlfriend doesnít think it helps to live in
the past. Sheís probably right.
So what have I done lately? What have I
wanted to do? I answer myself: love someone who loves you back. So in
addition to being insecure, Iím confused. I thought thinking was a good
thing. But of course I would think that.
the Door of the Law stands wide open. And if you have to ask, you donít
need to go in there. Youíve got no business in there. Iím not certain,
but I think this applies to every door. One could argue that this defeats
morality, or that this is a supreme moralóa love supreme, a love supreme.
Maybe it does, maybe it is, but whatever the case may be, this skin
sure seems to fit better dancing to that tune, because the zipper is
in the front now. And when Iíve danced my heart out and this skin is
damp and clinging Iíll peel it off in the moonlight. Grrrr goes the
zipper. Iím not going to die, Iím just
going to change skins, as Iíve always done, as Iíve always loved to
do. Skin, like socks, should be changed at least once a day, else something
starts to smell funny. Skin, and the Door of the Law¾itís the
same. I am the door and whatís on the other side, just as Iím whatís
on this side. What hurts is thinking that I am just one thing. What
hurts is thinking that anything is just one thing.
It matters, it does matter. And it doesnít
matter at all. See, my whole life Iíve asked, God knows who Iíve asked,
Could this be me? I havenít been malicious, nor do I see myself being
so, yet it was guilt that made me ask these questions. Can I open this
door? Does that mean Iím a bad person? Can I be better that I was thought
to be? Can I rise higher than was expected? Can I be happy? Angry? Sad?
Iím sad. Love me. Iím angry. Love me.
Iím happy. Will you hate me, will you run away? I have become everything
that I ever wanted. So love me. What if I showed you that I donít need
anything but I want it, I want it all? What if I lived, happily ever
after, and never stopped laughing? And what if I told you Iíve never
been sad, just too happy to express in a comfortable way.
When I laugh I cover my mouth with a
hand that no one can see. Iíd give myself away, maybe never get it back,
never live it down. But God hasnít given up on me. I tell him my secrets
and he tells me his. God doesnít keep secrets, neither do I, and thatís
the secret. And the hand that covers my mouth is the hand that holds
this head. You can see it. You see, I almost forgot that I could change,
that changing doesnít mean you start all over, unless you want to, and
even then you have to live with yourself.
Iíve changed again. And again. And Iím
happy but am I satisfied? Or is that a relevant question? Even your
favorite pants get holes in the knees.
will not look away. This is not broken. I am following the crease of
your smile. Iím following you down. My arms outstretched, my fingers
trace two walls that are no longer smooth, that are no longer two. If
these were stairs, and they are not, still I would count them. A point,
your chin, your face the shape of a heart. We are behind us, we are
under us, we are ahead of ourselves again, and then we are gone.