The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

Getting things done.

Organizing, tidying, shuffling.
Redecorating, rearranging, reallocating.

Compartmentalizing.

And when you’re done with all of it, you take a step back and look at the bigger picture.

What do you see?

MG

Don’t swipe left.
Just, write.

They say.
Write, now.
Right now.

I wrote my heart away
Bled the ink onto the pages
Turned them until the end cover
When there was nothing to discover
Except enjoying and experiencing
Life and light…
together…

…no longer…
running from the shadows
of where I was once hidden
Grief stricken, never guilt ridden
Good riddance

To whatever was unnecessary
But if we hadn’t been so relentlessly
stubborn
in pursuit of the selves we’d try to retain
Then why, oh why,
did you refrain from taking just one more step
to meet me

(less than)

halfway…?

MG

Him

“You could have anything you want, you just need to take the first step out of the front door,” he had said to me, a long time ago. I never understood what this meant, but there he watched, from a distance. Waiting.

He was waiting for me, and he didn’t even know it.

His process of waiting, contrary to popular belief, did not consist of sitting on a rock meditating. Although, I’m sure he did do this from time to time, to cleanse his soul and spirit of unnecessary negativity infesting our planet. No, his process of waiting consisted of paving a way, of laying a foundation where I could easily maneuver myself closer to his realm.

He was never going to come to me, he’d made that clear from the start. But he’d make it immensely difficult to stay away — not in the form of an addiction, nor an obsession. Nay, I could put him aside easily and go back to my life at will. I’ve done so countless times, shuffling between him and her; you and I.

Easily.

Why? Because I enjoyed my own company as much as I enjoyed his. I didn’t like him more than I liked myself, but I didn’t like myself less than I liked him. If anything, I felt the exact same way about him as I did about me… and… he felt the exact same way about me as he did about himself.

I’ve never told anyone about him though, not in the way they’d expect, anyhow. I tried, a couple of times, but I could hear their unspoken doubts. The looks on their faces as they wondered, “you’re just two narcissists in love with the ideas of each other, aren’t you?”

I’d questioned that, myself, too. Countless times. Then I looked closer and realized that the self-love we both shared was not a result of self-hatred, it was not a projection to avoid the void. Our self-love was authentic. It was real. It was genuine.

It was…sincere.

Neither of us wanted to cause harm to the other, and neither of us placed the other on a pedestal. Yes, in public, he was the accomplished one with the experience and expertise. He was the one they would turn to in times of need. And I allowed that: he had more energy for the others than I did. He had more…charisma.

But in private, he was mine, and I was his. We were perfect reflections of each other: process of elimination cancelled out our equilateral differences, and together, we were one.

Literally, the same.

Some call it fate, some call it destiny.

I call it math.

But hey, semanitcs, right?

MG

(Creative writing: Him)

I thought I could reign it in and unify all of it, write to you, and be able to say, “Yes, it’s you.”

It’s always you, isn’t it? And yet…it never is. But the French had it right all along…I love…vous. (English equivalent: “yous”)

To you, my darling,
I miss you. It started as a simple “I enjoy your company, and you mine, why not get together and have a great time…” But it’s become a bit more that. Just a bit. Not to say I feel incomplete or inadequate without you. Not even the memories or history. I miss the possibilities. I miss when our innocence wasn’t jaded by fragments of whatever future we thought we had to stress over, when we made plans that felt more like dreams than setting concrete.
I miss when you wanted me…enough to actually show it. I miss when “making an effort” for me was never “effort”, when I was a desire not an obligation. I miss…the possibility of us.

To you, my love,
I love you. But I’ll never tell you that, at least, not sober. I love you, not in the cliche “I want to spend the rest of my life with you” kind of way — I’m not romantically idealistic.
But I love you. The you I had gotten to know, however briefly, however endless that  fickle moment seemed…but the you I love…is…unbeknown to anyone but myself. The you I love, only I have seen. No one knows you…except you and I. That “you”, that’s who I love. It is also why I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life with you…much as I adore you, the combination of us would simply explode. We’re just… too much together.
I’ll love you anyway, but I’m not going to do anything about it.

To you, my sweetheart,
You’re very likeable. I hope you know that. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. You’re that flux between enjoying the attention but hating the repercussions. You want me to commit, but you don’t want to reciprocate. You want to commit, but you’re scared I’ll walk away. So you cling to them instead, the others who don’t seem to like each other very much…well…they probably wouldn’t, if they’d known about each other. But they don’t. And I do. Out of all of us, I’m the only one actually loving you being you. Selflessly entertained by the life you lead, knowing that simply being the desirable part of it is all I’d ever wanted. Keep being you, sweetheart, you’re amazing.

To you, my dearest,
I don’t know how you made it in. No, I don’t know why I let you in. All I know is that I made room for you, and then you disappeared. Then reappeared, wriggled your way in, got comfortable, and disappeared again. You’ve taught me not to see it as a game, to embrace it as your reality, the way you do things. It’s your “expression”. You create an illusion — for us, for them.
Never knowing where you stand, jumping on and off the pedestal they placed you on — “just because you can“, might I add — but, my dear, you do it, for all of us who wish we could.  Your absence leaves behind a presence, my dearest, and it’s one that manages to mesmerize, even from a distance. That’s you, dear, and I get it…it’s you who has yet to understand you

To you, my beloved,
We need to talk.

I love vous.

MG

(Creative writing: Polyamory)

Uttering utter confusion
Amazed by a maze
Staring at the stairs
Sloping down a slope
‘Round the globe
Motions, emotions

Firing the firer
Projections of projects projected projectilely
Generations generating generators
Theorists theorizing theoretical theories
Illusionists eluding the elusive illusions
eluded by allusion alluded to allure
Allure, lure

Polarized polarities polarizing
Trail-blazers blazing trails
Unasked questioned
Unworded answers
Unwritten memories
Unforgotten fantasies

Layers of bureaucracy
Circles of philosophy
Checklists for passes
Mentality of the masses

The mass and the matter
The ladder and the latter
The aggression breeds competition
The destruction breeds reflection

The reflection leads to action
The actions evoke reactions
The reactions invoke deflections

And the only abstraction
amidst the confusion
is the invention
of a measurement
we call…

time.

Time is infinite.

Take time.
Give it time.
Never make time — take it.
Give it.
Allocate it.
But never
make time.

You are not a god.

MG

If You Let Me

I don’t wanna be just a memory
And I don’t wanna feel your wings break free
Because without you I’m lost in the breeze
I gotta be strong now, I gotta show you how.

To You:

I never did get around to telling you why I was disappointed, did I? I suppose you never stuck around long enough to realize I actually am capable of emotions. At least, I seem to have discovered this capacity to be true.

You did ask what it was I wanted. I wanted to see you write, to be a part of the process and not apart from it. I didn’t want to merely be the “muse” that inspired your creations, I wanted to be the brush you dipped into the ink.

I watched as you traded your soul for your body; your writing for your running. One could only hope you were merely creating the experiences you would later on depict. I realized, perhaps whatever we were was that experience you never knew existed…

But, I was disappointed, nonetheless, for you were so fixated on being a result that you skipped the entire process of us.

Pain, that’s inevitable. It’s part of life. Not the only part, of course, just the part that motivates people like you to write. Your projection of me was the pain you sought; loving me was the provocation you were looking for since you discovered your wellspring of creativity. It was the darkness you needed after being in the sun too long. Somehow along the way, you lost your torch, so you ran ‘soon as the shadows moved with the winds.

Anger, however, that was on me. That was my storm. I was looking for that provocation, knowing that your childlike desire for a utopian creation would most definitely invoke my rage. Why? Because for me, growing up was never a choice. My innocence was stripped from me the moment I could put two syllables together and figure out what words were.

Believe me, innocence of the mind is not something of which I am familiar. Innocence of the heart, perhaps, but mind? Nay.

And there you were, a physical representation of all that I had left behind, a version of my younger self that you had chosen to portray in my present. A self I thought was history. There you stood.

Still, I write this now, after all this time, because being both blessed and cursed with an infallible experiential memory renders you an experience I cannot forget.

Cannot, and also choose not to try.

While I do miss the memories we only halfway created, darling, I find it hard to miss you. What disappoints me, love, is that…

…I never knew you.

Not the way I wanted to anyway, you never let me. You feared me more than you loved me, and ran though there was nothing to fear. By the time you discovered I’m actually harmless, your shoes were so worn and torn that you wondered if it was even worth coming back. To me.

And yet here we are, after all this time, still writing, still breathing the same air, still sharing the same city space — that unrefined space of a place you know I can only call home. Here we are, after months, and all my unspoken feelings and untold truths spill like word vomit, time and time again. Here we are; here I am, still writing. Still thinking of you. Still loving you.

Still wondering…if your existence is a memory or a dream…

I miss…the you I never knew.

MG

P.S. HB, R.

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