As I lay in his arms and he quietly speaks sweet things to me – “you’re beautiful” – “you make me happy” – “my Love” – I wonder if he’s ever said those words to another. If perhaps there is a different woman out there who has been on the receiving end of his all-encompassing love and passion. Am I really so special to him? Or does he feel this big with every one that he loves?
Why does he love me? I am ordinary. I’m not beautiful. I’m no smarter than others. I’m moody. I’m selfish. I get jealous. And yet, he does love me. He loves me deeply and truly. His energy, my energy. Together, we pass it back and forth, letting our combined energies build and crescendo. The lies and the darkness fall away until only truth remains. When we are together everything else fades away and I feel like a real person again.
It is during these moments, these precious hours, when the world actually seems at peace. When everything feels right, good and whole. At night. In his arms.
And then when those long nights and days arrive when I am alone and he’s not beside me, well, those are the times when the world seems a big, desolate, empty and scary place to be. Those are the hours when I lay there, depressed and sad, and darkness creeps in to overtake my mind.
I lay here remembering: his rough voice, his beautiful words, his soft skin, his virile scent, his rugged hands and strong arms, the cadence of his breathing. “I love you.” My breath hitches. “My Love.” Tears flow. “You make me so happy.” god, I miss him so much. “You’re beautiful.” Please… please don’t leave again.
Inside, I know it’s not right of me to ask him to stay. But when he’s gone I’m a husk. Barely surviving. He completes me. I have bound myself to him and he has bound his spirit to mine. Where he goes, my heart goes with him. The time we have together passes in a moment; the time apart drags on for years.
I don’t ask him aloud to stay. I can’t put that on him and make him feel guilty. I know he sees the pleading in my eyes. I know the days apart hurt him like they hurt me. I want to cling to him, beg him to stay. Please don’t leave me again! You’re my very breath. But I don’t. Each time he leaves, it gets harder for me to let him go. I wonder how long I can keep doing this.
tara caribou | ©2017
Last night I dreamt you came home
I opened my eyes
The bed was empty
You weren’t there
Damn you, dreams
Building up false hope
Reality is where I need to live
—— —— ——
Dream state: you’re home
Reality: I’m alone
Dream state: you’re cuddled up beside me
Reality: it’s cold
Dream state: you’ll never go again
—— —— ——
Maybe dreams aren’t so bad
Perhaps I can close my eyes
Just a little longer
Time will pass swiftly
You’ll be home again
And my arms won’t ache
For that’s where you’ll be once more
Primarily, I write because I like writing. In some ways, I can articulate, organize and sift through my thoughts and issues better than merely speaking them out loud. Written down, I can revisit them. I have a tendency to blurt things out or speak without thinking in person. Not so, when I write.
I can take my time. Edit. Remove. Add. Clarify. Re-read. Digest. Writing helps me cope and it helps me stay sane. While journaling on a real piece of paper using an actual writing implement could accomplish the same thing, in a way, it doesn’t. If I write in a paper journal, no one but me will see those words. And yes, while I primarily write for me, I also write for you, too. Maybe a thought I write will strike you and cause you to stop and think. Or maybe to laugh or chuckle. Maybe you won’t feel so alone in your struggles. Maybe you’ll reach out to me and together we can carry the load. Whatever the reason, I’m sharing my most intimate thoughts here on the Internet.
I find, too, that if I get the words out of my head, I don’t obsess over them quite as much. I can let that thought go. Release it from my mind. Freeing me from my own self. At times, I can get stuck on a thought and stay in a rut. If I write about it, I can process it better and move on in life. Also, by writing, I stay nameless and faceless thereby bypassing the judgment that would surely come my way if I actually spoke these things out loud.
Not one single person that I know knows this blog. I blog elsewhere publicly. That blog is attached to my name and my person. Through social media and the like. This blog is special to me personally. It’s where I come out of my self-made shell, in a way, and share my inner-most thoughts and struggles. It’s where I get real. While I have a few friends who know this blog exists, they don’t know the name of it. No one could look it up by my name and attach it to me personally. Well, except the Internet robots, of course. But I have a feeling they won’t tell.
I live in relative seclusion off the power grid in rural Alaska. Location isn’t really that important, but it might explain a few things too. I don’t just get in my car and go for a drive. Or even turn on the tap for a drink of water. Life is a struggle and can also be a joy. Those things aren’t what this blog is about. Those are the physical. These writings and notes are about my thoughts, struggles, sadness, life-navigation, coping, grief, friendship, love and whatever else strikes my fancy.
I’m not going to try to dazzle you with glorious photos or deep insights. I don’t have those. What I do have is transparency, as far as my thought process goes. I want to remain anonymous but I also want to reach out and maybe help just one person out there.
I don’t need comments or likes or followers to keep doing this. Some of those would be nice, I suppose, but I’m okay with just getting these words out of me and into the air. Writing, for me, is healing. And I am in need of that. A healing of the mind and of the soul. A new page turns now.
tara caribou | ©2017
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Welcome to my tiny corner of the universe filled with poems that I have written.
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