Foolish Heart

Is it July already? My, this time last year I was sitting at home, writing in my diary about a boy. What's changed? Not much, apparently. I just spent the last forty-five minutes or so writing about a boy.

Mind you this time, it was on a computer. Modernized.
Different situation, similar feelings of fondness and longing. Shall we move on? Yes, PLEASE.

I feel as though there is a balloon, semi-inflated, in the right side of my throat. One tonsil has decided to oppose me, whereas the other has remained quite docile. I picture them as a pair of siblings, one of which decides to act out. I shouldn't be surprised. I don't take very good care of myself. Where is my life going? Man, I do not know. For the next few days, it's going to sit it's ass on the couch that's less than 20 feet away from me, and wait for my glands to deflate and continue existing as usual. During this time, I'm quite certain I'll be faced with quite a few challenging and overwhelming psychological, emotional, and spiritual challenged. In silence, the baggage presents itself. Always with a twinge of nausea (or that could just be the Clavacin).

So I will marinate in teas and pills and sorrow until I feel better. I simply pray to God that someone is there to pull me abruptly to my feet. I am so easy to get down, in this time of transition. If only I could find my footing, I could walk anywhere and know who I am. Even the slightest change in scenery seems enough to send me tumbling straight onto my ass.

My poor, poor ass.

And, for the love of Bob Ross, when will my heart quit yearning for things beyond boundaries? It's not the fact that these things are forbidden, because my affection to the subject is rightly felt and deserved. But to express myself with kisses and comfortingly laid hands - it is in my very nature! Yet I find myself reduced to mumbling and blushing and sometimes, tears. When out of the line of fire, I set myself to memories that induce pining. Imagine - pining! The very thought is enough to send me to a stack of romantic comedies coated in chocolate, simply to make a further mockery of myself. I can hardly stand the thought of the action, 'pining', but what am I doing right now? Is that not the definition of 'pining'? Constantly sending thoughts, reaching out to someone who is focused elsewhere? Escaping to memories when there was no distance between these two (entirely fictional and theoretical) people? It could be seen as pathetic, sad. Then again, certain parts of me could be seen as pathetic, or sad.

My official statement, however, is that I am a victim! A victim of feelings that make me warm when I am cold, despite my yearnings. A victim of feelings that paint my sunny days with silver and gold, and a victim of feelings that, in themselves, are praises to God.

Despite my pain... Despite the costs and the woes... Is the ability to love not beautiful in itself?

In my ill state, I will let this thought ease my mind before sleep. Instead of thinking about that which makes me ache, I will say this.

"I can love."