dissonance.chaos.gasoline. (dear you, pt. 13)

dissonance.

the most beautiful sound, i think.

there’s an odd balance between beauty and madness.

as if there’s a way for the chaos to make sense,

only so long as you don’t fly too far off the reservation.

i haven’t been sleeping again. i’ve spent way too much time thinking of you,

but not really thinking of you.

i’ve mostly been thinking about the concept of you.

because as i’ve stood here for the last year, slowly gluing myself back together,

i’ve often thought about chaos.

i thought i thrived in it.

it turns out, i made it work when i had to,

but i wouldn’t call that an existence.

i’m over being reactionary.

and yet,

here i am.

currently it’s 12:30.

last night it was 4:30.

the night before, it was 3:30.

and i’ve been thinking about chaos again,

and about dissonance.

i’m trying to wear a new frame,

because the chaos didn’t work for me.

as it turns out,

it’s harder to isolate the madness and drive it away than it is to ignore it.

but i can’t ignore it.

i love the dissonance,

but i loathe chaos now.

dissonance has a tendency to at least acknowledge the rules. chaos carries no regard.

dissonance allows you to burn the house to the ground and start over,

but chaos is covering yourself in gasoline beforehand.

and your disregard for my vulnerability has covered me in gasoline.


dear you,

everything ends someday,

and now,

it’s really late,

and i need to wash the gasoline off of this shirt,

so i can burn the house down without burning myself anymore.

everything ends someday, pt. 5

everything ends someday,

and a little over a year later,

new things are finally beginning.

it’s a strange feeling,

because it’s just under two years later,

and so much feels similar.

new, but old.

a fresh perspective on an old pattern.

yet the old patterns never really disappear.

we just try to anticipate them and meet them head on.

we come ready to fight.

but we forget sometimes that fighting is tiring.

fighting takes strength.

fighting takes practice.

and sometimes,

it feels as if the fight is going to lead us back to the beginning again,

making us wonder if the fight is worth it.

and so when the moment arrives,

and we find ourselves asking those same questions again -

those same awful, false, dead-end questions again -

the search for answers feels like a fight that we don’t have time to battle again.

but what if,

we weren’t meant to fight?

what if what we’ve been trying to learn all along was not supposed to be the answer?

what if we were supposed to STOP asking the question?

maybe the questions are unanswered because we were never meant to ask them,

because the line of reasoning that got us here was so flawed,

so misguided,

and so evil,

that to answer it would only be an illusion.

we’re trying to solve a puzzle,

but the pieces are literally numbered.

dear you,

everything ends someday.

stop solving puzzles that aren’t there to begin with,

and maybe,

just maybe,

you can live with the promise that the numbers don’t lie.

roads. (dear you, pt. 12)

love is an art,

love is a balancing act.

as I look through pictures,

glimpses of past lives push their way out of the hole I’ve dug for them.

i’ve learned that ‘what if?’ Is a terrible question.

i’ve also found out that ‘why?’ isn’t so bad of one.

we were always told that nobody can really know why things happen the way they do.

and to an extent, i guess that’s true.

but i can’t help but ask it when i think about you.

i think ‘why?’ is a perfectly acceptable question to ask,

because while there may not always be a reason,

i think that there’s always a meaning.

there’s no reason in suffering.

there’s no glory in pain.

but there is revelation in redemption,

and there is purpose to gain.

when i look into the eyes of those i love,

and of those who love me,

i see the power that comes from believing in redemption.

 

 

dear you,

why did you do the things you’ve done?

why have you walked the road that’s clearly marked with misery and waste?

and why don’t you see the obvious exits?

on this side of earth, you haven’t permanently sealed your fate.

it’s never too late.

the songs we sing. (dear you, pt. 11)

there’s a lot in a song.

there’s so much more than notes and rhythm.

there’s a road trip.

there’s a sleepless, tired night.

there’s a sunrise, and a new day full of possibilities.

there’s a sunset, and a sense of fulfillment (or lack of).

there’s a rainy/snowy/sunny/cloudy day.

there’s a rainbow.

there’s a hurricane.

there’s the sweet scent and stench of nostalgia.

there’s a promise of new memories.

there’s shredded vocal chords as we find our voices.

there’s the rush of losing yourself, and the thrill of finding it all over again.

there’s the thought that i’m not good enough.

there’s the realization that there is one that is good enough for all of us.

there’s the pain of brokenness.

there’s the power of redemption.

 

 

dear you,

when we sing the same songs,

i realize what’s in a song,

and why the sweetest sound of all might be harmony.

you're welcome, i'm sorry. (dear you, ctd.)

why write?

it’s a question i’ve asked myself numerous times.

i still don’t know the answer to it.

there are some simple components that i agonize over, and it trips me up every time.

who is my audience?

this may be the hardest of the questions.

do i write for me? i think that i probably do.

which isn’t a wrong motivation.

you really can’t write for the sake of writing.

it is, to me, by nature a chore. it takes time. thought. effort. all things that are in short supply sometimes.

do i write for the masses? as if my words could possibly be important enough.

i think that sometimes i write for you,

(scratch that — i KNOW that i write sometimes for you),

because you need to hear these things.

or do you? why am i arrogant enough to think that you “need” anything, let alone something from me?

maybe sometimes i write FROM you,

inspired by the both the triumphant and the tragic.

my words have been my asset and my downfall. which is which? i guess that’s up to you.

i labor and agonize over my words, and have to decide if it’s worth it.

yet here i am, so here goes:

 

 

dear you,

you’re welcome, and i’m sorry.

it’s up to you to decide which of those you believe in.