. . . Melliferous

Sometimes I think I'm wandering around inside history, and I'm either hopelessly lost, or appallingly trapped. And then I feel melancholy. Just a few rock songs later, and the eerie emotion's cemented and all I can think about is the people I've moved on from. Ex close friends and ex boyfriends alike, these people are cloistered in the storage container marked "memories to forget." Yet somehow, those memories don't remain forgotten since I keep dredging them up, like WinAmp movies on loop repeat.

So I'm walking around in Santa Monica, which always has the faint scent of excrement on a breeze that should reek of salt and sand. Mingled in unreality, I walk to lunch where I sit at a table much too close to a neighboring table, so close that the occupants' conversation might as well be mine, as I try not to look either of them in the eye.

Apparently, Mindy and New York Girl are in therapy and the siblings of the two feel at ease discussing Mindy and New York Girl's personal issues right there at noon, sun burning the retinas of tourists and locals alike. Mindy has both anorexia and depression issues, New York Girl just depression. Their family members are complaining about how hard it is to deal with these precious people, instead of loving and living. But the siblings' self-absorption seems to have skimmed the point here. Their beloved sisters are in trouble, and although bitter and difficult to live with, these ladies are hurting inside. Forgive them, for they know not what they do.

So I leave the restaurant in a weird mind space and zone out. I enter some other reality where I'm trying to disperse and process the stories I'd just overheard, and my rather strong feelings about it. As the 7-11 zooms into view, I smell roses and geraniums, and wonder if I'm in some other parallel universe. The inside of the store is cool, clean and neat, and they're playing classical music. It's relaxing.

Nestled between the bottled water and the magazine rack are cans of tennis balls, and that makes me confused. (A 24 hour need for tennis balls?) In the midst of these conflicts, I start to realize that Santa Monica, is indeed, not Kansas.

In other news: Insecurity beats at the heart of every individual. Am I safe, we ask, and we're never really assured, no matter what anyone says, or does.

We need affection to feel loved; we need encouragement to feel motivated. And sometimes that's not even enough.

But why is it that we can't ever find contentment? Or perhaps that's just my plight. I find myself cynical in search of the mythical soulmate. I hear the paradox in the statement, don't get me wrong, but I haven't much else to do. I can either fuck anything that moves, and feel no respect nor joy, just the satisfaction of the desires my hormones have inflicted upon me. Only to wake up to a morning after (plus pill), (I'm not looking forward to creating a new crop of humanity without the mythical soulmate.)

The Mythical Soulmate
-(s)he looks into your eyes and knows
-(s)he isn't perfect, but isn't afraid to admit it either
-(s)he takes your breath away, when his/her head is turned 'just right'
-(s)he smiles. often.
-(s)he would love to share his/her life with you
-(s)he wonders about you when you're apart
-(s)he sees you for who you are and who you're to become, sometimes before you know
-(s)he makes your heart race with passion, in discussions and sex
-(s)he wants the best for you, no matter how painful that is
-(s)he isn't afraid
-(s)he challenges you, loves you, and will work to keep that
-(s)he is able to finish your thoughts but knows it's rude to do so
-(s)he would defend you (to the pain) to his/her mother
-(s)he writes poetry about you in his/her journal
--feel free to add to the list --

So if you know of this person, don't tell me about it, let me accidentally find it, so I can actually believe it's real.