The weight of my thoughts

I almost snapped by the weight of the incongruity of my thoughts.

Wanting and not willing to go. Stuck in the in-between, of wanting and loving and not acting on it.

I almost went to you today, but was afraid you wouldn’t be there, or of what you’d say.

Seeing you as I do, trying to be seen without being seen, struggling in days like today, when idleness inevitably sends my thoughts to you.

Yes, I confess, I have to keep busy to pretend, to flesh out the makings of daily life without you.

I almost went today, and I didn’t, again.

I just hope that, in time, you’ll still be there, willing to take a chance on me.

Just so you know

Silence is a double-edged sword, a prism through which myriad interpretations can be filtered. It’s a dangerous thing, this business of silence, because in the absence of noise, anything can fill the void. Doubt, remorse, anger, frustration, all those can ravage the void created by silence.

But silence belongs to the incandescent truth; silence is the necessary projection of the self, the needed rest before action can be taken. Silence belongs to the golden rule, it belongs to the scriptures, and it belongs to the epiphany of all that is worth anything in this life. In silence you find inspiration, repose, reenactment, imagination, succor, joy, enlightenment. Yes, it may sound trite, corny, worn. But in silence is where I find peace, and also a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. Yes, silence is thought, and to think is to be.

So, pardon the interruption of your silence and forgive mine.

We’ll keep thinking.

House

What’s so important about a house? Is it location? Its components? Its style? Are colors or materials more important than school district or age? Are old houses just old or do they have character, persistence? Are new houses just new, or are they just bourgeois, or extroverted?

All these questions float underneath my consciousness, especially at night. Especially at 3 AM. Must be the time when I’m about to dive deeper into sleep, and my mind takes a quick look above the surface, to take a deep breath. Sometimes, the waves are too thunderous, or the sunshine too bright, and I can’t go back to sleep.
Then the whirlwind begins: thoughts, doubts, anger, remorse, all the crazy and expected thoughts swirling behind tired, opened eyes. Restless in bed, I get up and try to regain sleep in front of the TV, or with a dull book (all books are dull at 3 am).

Sometimes I stay up for a couple of hours, trying not to think, but inevitably falling into a reverie of thought, wishing to sleep at the same time as I examine the minutiae of picking a house, of trying to catalogue the important aspects of buying a new house. Location, price, pain, basement. Roof, parking, kitchen, carpet. Waves crashing against my tired eyes, keeping them awake.

I look around, at the house I live in, the house that, at first, was another restless choice, and that now has become hard to abandon. I secretly wish it never sells, knowing that selling it is an inevitable step, that getting rid of it is tantamount, just like getting rid of a loved dog after it bites someone, or getting rid of a worn and tired car after the transmission gives way. But those are inevitable choices; leaving this house if just a choice. Seems like the more adjectives you add to a choice, the easier it is to pick it.

So I’ve decided to pick a house. My realtor says that if you like 80-90 percent of it, you must pick it. But how can one be that certain of uncertainty? I tell myself, it’s all about compromise and putting things in perspective. It’s about finding out what’s important about the house. Is the house a bedroom, a cave, an office or a home? Are its components important, or is it more important that it is in a good school district? Is it close to work and school? Is it big enough?

All good questions. The problem is that most of those answers won’t come until after you buy the house. Is it ever too late? Not really. Houses these days are an exchanged commodity, temporary abodes, trade-up stepping-stones.

And that’s what makes me sad. I remember every single house I’ve lived in. Have I loved them all? No. But they all leave a scar. House hunting is a lot like love. Too bad love is so complicated, full of compromises.

What happened to unconditional, love-at-first-sight, forever, love?

Probably sold for a bigger love.