Finding My Future Inside My Desk Drawer

I cleaned out my desk this afternoon in a somewhat feng shui moment, a whole organize your life to organize your mind, kind of thing. It worked, I think. Somehow, knowing that all my little sticky pads are in one drawer, and all the random miscellaneous papers that I'm afraid to throw out because I'm not sure why I needed them in the first place are in another, seems to help. I feel clear and fresh. I feel okay, even good. Cleanliness and organization does this for me. It lets me see my life as it, lets me recognize again all the good things that have existed all along, but were before lost beneath the clutter of stress and emotions.

I do this every now and then, really clean house, fix things up. I get my life in order. And almost every time, I uncover some artifact from a period of disorder. A note on a pad outlining a story of despair, about a character whose name is not my own, but whose life is undoubtedly mine. Or sometimes, like this time, it is a poem. Something I wrote with great care, heartfelt emotion. Usually it sucks. Most times, I hate it. I just throw them away, these crappy manifestations of sorrowful times, pathetic writing. But today I found one that is pretty good. I really like it, and I remember it. I remember writing this poem. I remember the feeling behind it, the situation that led to it. I remember this time, when I felt so sad, so desperate, and Daniel wanted to help me so much. But he couldn't. He didn't understand, couldn't understand, and he never really has, despite trying so hard and so valiantly. This is what I wrote one time, when I hurt Daniel without meaning to. A time when I looked into his eyes and thought that I could see his heart breaking. A time when he loved me so much, as much as he loves me now, as much as he's always loved me. But a time, like so many other times, when his love was not nearly enough.

What I Would Say if I Were You and You Were Me and You, As Me, Were Like This

Love itself does not prepare you for black
when black is no longer a color,
but a state-of-mind,
a life force,
a blanket beneath which to hide.
I know not how to find you,
where even to search
when you're not in any of the obvious places,
or not obvious ones that I've stumbled upon in the past
through luck, or understanding, or perhaps even cunning.
You are lost now to black,
cloaked in incomprehensibility
because I can think only in terms of color,
black as absorption of light,
the absence of all other color,
antithesis of white.
I see not how black is a hole,
a depth beyond reason or tangibility,
a realm of being that I cannot reach into--
a place where I love you
never seems to be enough.



Perhaps it is not the stuff of great poets, but of great realizations. When I read this poem again today, took in every single word and had the moment of composition flood back over me, I felt so incredibly lucky. I am so immensely lucky to have a man who tries so hard to understand me, even when he knows he can't. To have a man that loves me so fully, and so honestly that he refuses to forfeit that love even when I won't accept it. I've been having these thoughts lately, like any normal human being, that question whether or not I'm ready to get married. I fear that I am too young. I worry because I can't know for sure that everything will work out, fret because I can't predict the future. But when I read this poem and thought back on the years I've spent with Daniel, I realized that it isn't about knowing for sure. It isn't about being prepared for everything that might happen. Because preparation is not always possible. And sometimes, even love isn't enough. It is about having faith. About trusting each other enough to stick together through whatever comes our way. It is about doing something simple, like cleaning out your desk, and realizing something so monumental, like that you're ready to get married, and that together, you have come such a long way.