Iced Cream and Pink Beer
And so it went that on Friday I was awakened from a perfect sleep by a phone call that would punch my heart so hard that I thought bile and vile would mix and both come up from the depths of my soul and out my nose and mouth together simutaneously. The person on the other end told me of crimes comitted by a friend that destroyed yet another piece of my once gigantic mountain of hope. Now that friend is a friend no more.
Two weeks ago someone took a photo of me that was horrible. I have plenty of photos that are not horrible but now I am a walking photograph from two weeks ago and would rather hide myself under my once gigantic mountain of hope and not see anyone in the world. That very photograph pushed me to settle for less than I should until I came to my senses over a pizza.
Because I can't do that. I can't settle or hide.
So, I try very hard to focus on the other stuff. The people who make each day worth breathing for me. The converstions with my mother that make me laugh out of silliness. The tequila I drink with my closest friends on Thursdays. The conversations of worth that I share with the friend I envy with the pretty brown eyes and perfect writing gift. That friend never thought tears would stream from my eyes over ahi tuna and burgers not eaten but the tears did fall because of crimes comitted by a now lost friend and the reminder that looked in at me from beyond the door of the bar in which I sat. Later that day I would stand in a perfect kitchen with a perfect man and cry more tears for the same lost friend and crimes comitted that punched my very heart and cut another dent into the once gigantic mountain of hope that I had.
Two weeks ago someone took a photo of me that was horrible. I have plenty of photos that are not horrible but now I am a walking photograph from two weeks ago and would rather hide myself under my once gigantic mountain of hope and not see anyone in the world. That very photograph pushed me to settle for less than I should until I came to my senses over a pizza.
Because I can't do that. I can't settle or hide.
So, I try very hard to focus on the other stuff. The people who make each day worth breathing for me. The converstions with my mother that make me laugh out of silliness. The tequila I drink with my closest friends on Thursdays. The conversations of worth that I share with the friend I envy with the pretty brown eyes and perfect writing gift. That friend never thought tears would stream from my eyes over ahi tuna and burgers not eaten but the tears did fall because of crimes comitted by a now lost friend and the reminder that looked in at me from beyond the door of the bar in which I sat. Later that day I would stand in a perfect kitchen with a perfect man and cry more tears for the same lost friend and crimes comitted that punched my very heart and cut another dent into the once gigantic mountain of hope that I had.
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