Prose - Tumblr Posts - Page 2
Freedom is in the wind,
in the restless flow and lack of restraint,
and in the way gusts brush against skin before slipping past.
Freedom is in the cool desert breeze after nightfall,
in the sand liberated of the ground in ripples,
and in the voices of coyotes carried for miles on the air.
Freedom is in the raging winds of a hurricane,
in the currents whipping around and through all that dares stand in the way,
hurling hail and rain, swifter than the bat of an eye.
Freedom is in the murmuring gusts twisting through the forest,
singing arias through willow branches,
and turning the fluttering of birch leaves into a lasting applause.
Freedom is in the howling of a winter’s blizzard,
in the phantom whispers writhing between the pines,
and in the relentless dance of snowflakes amongst the sky.
Freedom was never something for a land to claim,
unchanging and unmoving as land tends to be.
But rather for the open air and ethereality of the wind,
never tiring, never settling.
~ On Freedom
This is getting exhausting.
You feel it too, don’t you? Our planet is choking beneath the weight of a sky that grows heavier with every airplane, every rocket, every exhale the dwindling trees can’t catch. She is drowning beneath her oceans, falling deeper with every melted iceberg.
The news repeats in cycles. More fires. More storms. Stronger storms. Too much pollution. Too much destruction. And we’re not doing enough.
Instead we watch from the receding shores as our beloved planet plummets into disrepair.
Humans aren’t all bad, I suppose. There are some of us trying to save pockets of the world as we continue to infect it. Parasites. Maybe that’s all we are in the end. Parasites that think we can conquer the land that raised us, that gave us the semblance of control that we now turn back with fire and drilling and plastic pollutants. But we can’t stop time, can’t turn back the destruction we’ve wrought fast enough and now it might be too late.
We’re selfish, and this is our fault. We drag the planet down, ruin her and deny it for personal gain as if we are actually significant to the universe, and we drag each other down too. There is no survival with a hostile humanity. Not for us, not for our tortured planet. Not for her animals, not for her forests, not for her oceans.
She’s exhausted. And I’m exhausted of watching.
I don’t want to lose anyone else.
That’s it, in the end. The dominating fear, the lurking thought that rears like a striking snake at the most inopportune moments. We sit on the couch together with her arms around me and I am hit with the realization that she is more important to me than I knew, that losing her would bring me to my knees and I can’t do that again. She doesn’t react when I go still.
There is almost an art, I think, to the delicate balancing of grief and fear. They are complements, intertwined, and one is almost certain to follow the other. I lost him. What if I lose them too? I love them. I’m afraid to lose them. I lost him. I could not stop him. He is gone.
All I have ever wanted is to protect the people I love. My sister calls to show me an old project where I proclaimed in childish handwriting that all I wanted was to make my friends happy. Perhaps I haven’t changed much after all. My friends remain my constellations, my stars, my Saturn, my Nebula. My universe. Do not pull the stars from my sky. Don’t make me lose anyone else.
I’ve decided that absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, only more desperate. City lights drown out the cosmos until dawn breaks and yet I still take to the streets in my pyjamas for a glimpse of Saturn nearing the horizon or a complete constellation with the fainter stars visible. It’s futile most of the time.
I never thought anything could distance me from my universe. I cannot lose anyone else. If they are gone, I am just as lost.
There’s something about the yearning for platonic domesticity that hits differently after two months of touch starvation and loneliness. I am wanting for so much that I don’t quite understand how to articulate. I type until my fingers on the keyboard sound like the downpour’s quickstep, then delete it all. And again. And again.
Maybe there is just too much longing to write in a single piece.
Today I spent hours looking for apartments, draped across a backdrop of rain and thunder on the pavement. It seems more than a little far-fetched, some fantasy borne of desire for a post-pandemic world, but somehow it also cradles the familiarity of coming home.
I can see it already, you know. Your plants on that countertop, my candles in that window. Us, together, sitting on that couch, crocheting like the old ladies we are at heart. A tea kettle on the stove begins to whistle. The smell of wet pavement from the street twines with that of the bread I’ve just pulled from the oven. I made buns again and you laugh that we don’t have enough mouths.
My favorite part of searching, though, is the lack of departure dates. The endless listings operate only in “at least”s, for six months, twelve months. Indefinite. The potential in this relative permanence, to return to the people you love every night without fearing the end…
Well, just the idea feels a little like coming home, doesn’t it?
My moral line in the sand is not a dramatic one, I think. It is thin and a little scuffed around the edges, subtle unless you kick at it. But it doesn’t waver when you do.
Years ago, I read an article about the modern audacity of caring, about extending the basic consideration of doing no harm. It’s strange how these lacking negativities cycle back like orbits--or is it that they never left in the first place? Another anti-mask protest gathered by the park today. I close the blinds and wonder if the air will clear before the next one.
I know I’m no pinnacle of morality. I’m a hypocrite with an edge of broken glass, and I don’t know how to forgive. And maybe that’s the core of it, really. My roommate snaps at me for being judgmental and I point the shards at her. I don’t lower my arm when it starts aching. I don’t pull open the blinds the next morning.
At sunset, someone I admire sits six feet away with a steaming mug between her sweater-paws. When her eyes sparkle, it’s only a reflection of the streetlamp. “Is it so wrong,” she asks me, “that I don’t think I can uphold such support to the people who continue to go to parties during all of this?”
I think about unconditional positive regard. Then I shake my head.
Later, I wonder if our lines in the sand are parallel.
dare i say, dont let time win. fight her with your impetuousness, race her with your actions, match her ticks with thoughts, drown her noise with your desires, run away from her authority and forget her completely until death comes at your door and reminds you of her that you have left. by then you shall make another decision, will you cherish and accept her without a fight or will you let adrenaline once again cloud your mind and senses of the unescapable responsibility and rule of time.
i hate being a woman. i hate how the world will never ever see me as a human first, i will always be a woman. i hate how no matter what clothes i wear, even the slighest curve of my silhouette will always be seen. no matter how i walk, the flick of my hips will always sway along my steps. no matter what i say, emotion and vulnerability will always be heard first, before any of my actual words are even registered by their brains. no matter how much i cover my face, the gentleness of my eyes can never be buried. no matter what i do, i will always carry anything as if it would break between my hands. no matter what i achieve, my sex would always be muttered, as if a vip pass. no matter what happens, my body will always be seen as marketable, desirable, and disposable. how i can never spread my legs in a train, never disobey a man, never be a person of my own. i will always be a woman and it's a burden, a curse that i continue to live with into my entire life.
but god forbid, i will ever be not a woman. i am a woman, and i love it as much as i hate it. god forbid that i stop painting my face in beautiful colors, clothing my body with pretty, flowy, and dainty fabrics, styling my lucious locks, lending a lipstick to another person in the bathroom, collecting flowers from pavement cracks, sympathizing with people i never know, caring when i dont have to, helping even when it hurts me, admiring even the ugly, understanding lyrics from songs, memorizing poetries to the heart, crying to movie scenes no one would even care to look deep into, finding beauty in the most obscure, scary and bizzare things. god forbid i stop seeing the world in a colorful lens of care, disillusionment, empathy, innocence, curiosity, remorse, grief, embarrassment, hatred and love.
i hate being a woman i really do, but i will never leave the femininity that i have come to love, the femininity that cares and love, the femininity that the world desparately needs.
Consent
He leaned forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a move both overly familiar and nearly paternal. For a moment his fingers hovered just over the fine hairs on her ear and she ducked her chin, moving her hand to her ear and the errant stand, cheeks pinking. He leaned back in his chair and resumed talking but she missed what he said, confused and flushed for a moment.
"I'm sorry?" She asked. "I missed that." The pen descended to the paper again.
"You asked about my relationship with Lydia." He smirked lazily. "And I was telling you. We were lovers. She was so crass and rude." He leaned forward again, long fingers reaching for her wrist, dropping his voice. "Nothing like you, I'm sure." He canted his head, studying her startled face, her eyes locked on his, pulled from her reverie while documenting their interview. He closed in a little more, the corners of his mouth slowly twisting into what was becoming a familiar smirk. "No. I can see. Timid. Never asking for what you want." His other hand moved to her knee as he leaned closer, invading her space. She inched back, transfixed as he came ever closer. Closing the space, he brought his mouth to the ear he'd caressed and murmured, voice thick and slow, sounding the way honey felt as it melted over the tongue. "Trapped in tradition and propriety. I bet your skin feels like fire right now." The hand on her knee was tracing letters she couldn't register. Her mouth was dry and slightly slack, face crimson, and her most intimate parts ached in an unfamiliar way. She gulped, making a soft squeaking sound.
He pulled away, returning her space to her. His peridot eyes scanned her and she thought she saw him hesitate, the domineering facade slipping. It returned just as it left, the wry twist back on his lips. "I'm so sorry. Talking about her...I miss her." His hand rifled through his long silver hair, his smirk turning rueful.
"Oh. Of course." She responded, confused at her feelings. She should have been relieved he pulled away and resumed the interview but she felt disappointed. Her smile was faltering. "She must have been wonderful. I think I have everything I need. Was there anything else?" She began to rise and he stood with her.
"Unless you have more questions. I'd be happy to discuss this further with you."
"Yes...if I have any more questions, I'll be in touch."
His hand hovered at her elbow as he escorted her to the door. She had begun to relax when she turned and looked up at him. His expression changed from congenial to that primal, dominating look he'd had before while he was turning to say his goodbyes.
His movements were languid, one hand beside her head, then the other. She held her breath as he crowded near her. Gooseflesh covered her back as she pressed to the wall, which was chill to the touch, and she trembled. One of his hands left the wall as he pressed even closer, knuckles delicately running along her jaw as he appraised her, then he leaned into her opposite ear and murmured, "I won't go any further until you tell me what you want."
As suddenly as he was in her space, he was gone, leaving a fiery heat between them while he reached for the door. She was speechless, waking automatically through the door and down the steps, before turning to look at him.
He leaned in the doorframe, hands in his pockets, smiling kindly. She blinked in confusion, then turned and practically scurried out the gate and down the street.
---
She had stood in the snow on his stoop for a half hour, simultaneously trying to talk herself into and out of what she was about to do. Finally she pushed the buzzer.
She was just about to turn and run when the door opened. He arched a brow, concerned.
"Look. I don't know what I want but I can't stop thinking about… that…"
"Come in from the cold, Marie." He gestured to the hall and she stepped in, suddenly feeling uncertain. She turned and he was on her heels, moving swiftly. Tottering, she felt her balance shift, but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her up and then firmly against him, one hand splayed against the small of her back.
He pulled her wrist up, shoving her sleeve down, then snaked his tongue along the translucent flesh there, his eyes never leaving hers. She watched, lips parting slowly to breathe as his mouth on her skin sent electricity from her wrist to her center.
"That?" He asked, bringing her upright.
She paused, her tongue darting over her parched lips, then nodded imperceptibly.
He smiled warmly, then ran the hand on her back upwards into her chocolate curls, fingers grasping a fistful of hair at her crown, carefully pulling her head back. She gasped, eyes widening, when he leaned in, running his nose along the outside of her ear, growling softly. "I said you had to tell me, didn't I?"
"Yes?" She squeaked.
He released her gently, then helped peel off her coat, hanging it on the stand. She was still somewhat dazed as he led her to the parlor where they'd met before. A fire was burning fully on the hearth. He motioned to one of the two richly upholstered wing back chairs, and sat himself in the one next to a small table holding a lowball of amber liquid. The bottle rested there as well: Whisky.
She sat slowly, watching him as he took the glass in hand and raised it to his lips, drinking deeply with a satisfied sigh. Motioning wordlessly, he offered her a glass of her own and she shook her head. One of his shoulders lifted in a shrug and he poured himself another.
They sat in silence for several long minutes, when she abruptly rose from her chair. "I… can't." She gulped, then turned to flee.
He caught her wrist again, dragging her into his lap. She gasped a half-hearted protest, but he held her firm.
"You can't?" He breathed, eyes reflecting dancing firelight, glowing nearly silver with reflection.
She squirmed, then mumbled. "I've never done anything like this. I don't know what to say."
Smiling indulgently with a soft chuckle, he murmured, "None of the boys at that newspaper ever trapped you behind the press?"
Her face heated and she gulped. "Yes. But not… not in a way I wanted...or...liked."
"And you're here because you think you'd like what I'd do?"
She didn't answer, staring at her lap.
Reaching up, he took her chin, raising an eyebrow as he turned her face to his. His voice dropped, and he spoke in earnest softness. "I don't go further until you ask."
She squeezed her eyes closed then looked up as if entreating her maker. Without looking back down, her words tumbled out at just above a whisper. "I can't stop thinking… imagining… you."
"Oh?" The smirk returned. "And what am I doing?" A finger danced idly over one of her knees.
"Everything?"
He leaned up, slowly nuzzling into her neck. "Everything?"
She was flustered, the sensation at her throat and over her knee distracting. "Please." She whispered. "I don't know what I'm asking for. I don't know the words."
His breath was warm against her neck, and she trembled, thrusting her clasped hands between her knees while dropping her chin. He moved the hand doodling over her knee to give her space, and pulled his hair out of his eyes as he looked up at her.
"Then...I suppose I can make an exception." His gaze washed over her features, studying her intently. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, slowly finding her voice. "What… what did you have in mind?"
The hand that rifled though his hair settled over her hands clasped tightly between her knees. "I'll ask questions and you can answer… and I'll try to refrain from teasing too much." Her eyes shifted to him. "/Try/. Watching you blush is… exciting." She thought she felt him shiver with delight as he said the last word, and her cheeks warmed again. He exhaled shallowly, desire clouding his eyes, before he shook his head, and replaced the slack jaw with a grin.
She felt the stirrings of her own wicked little thoughts in the back of her mind, pleased that he made that look, pleased that she /caused/ him to make that look. That rapt, hungry look… and the knowledge that she held him with her assent.
humans are animals. on a biological level, human beings are highly evolved mammals with complex social structures and well-developed brains. we eat, we sleep, we fuck. we raise our young and form tribes and fight for scarce goods. but i think that we are interesting because we are unparalleled in our ability to cause immense ripples in the universe, to leave a mark in our worlds and the worlds’ of others. we have the ability to cause outstanding pain, to tear each other apart with our words and rip out each other’s hearts. we are animals at our cores. but i think this fact makes our small kindnesses that much more meaningful, our moments of relief and pointless morals and ardent generosity all the more special. i have seen incredible hurt in this world, and i have also seen such genuine curiosity, gentleness, and connection. maybe it’s naive of me, but i think that most people do not want to cause harm. if given the chance, most people will choose kindness — to say thank you to the waiter, to pull their legs in when you walk through an aisle, to follow traffic lights and form lines even when it would be easier to cut. i think at our core, we want to do good, to try. i think that all of the pain and anger and hurt and violence only makes our amazing capacity for kindness that much more meaningful, that much more wonderful. in a senseless, brutal world, the fact that someone is helping a stranger pick up their spilled groceries or making silly faces for a baby is something to be cherished. something real. maybe, just maybe, it isn’t all bad.