A Perpetual State of Freefall Towards an Uncertain End

I'm sorry. I actually am. It's such a stupid thing to be upset about. I'm surprised at myself. I normally don't let things get to me like this. But much to my dislike, there seems to be a new unfamiliar pattern forming. One that send me soaring, and then (with no easy way to land), comes with the inevitable crash.
Strange that I find the crash to be my favourite part. The comforting part. I crash into normal. I crash into reality. I crash into solid ground. I can regain my footing. I can find the balance and stability that I lost while temporarily floating. Floating illegally against all gravitational laws and principles.
Yes, the crash is okay, the crash is tolerable. It's the crashing that's a little more difficult. The descent that steadily increases in speed as it gains momentum. The "crash" part is easy enough to make sense of. There might be some wreckage, but after the fact, there's all the time in the world to process it. Crashing is disorienting, confusing, and it is utterly impossible to make sense of everything as it is speeding by. There is never enough time to think while crashing, moreover, logical thoughts do not present themselves while crashing is occurring.
I think it is probably easier to fall from a greater height, because then at least, one likely has a parachute, and will likely have time to react and release it. It is not a great height that I am crashing from. It was not high enough to require a parachute, it was not high enough to make me afraid of the height. But it was high enough that I now fear the impact.
I have learned something however, It is best not to confide one's dreams in others. That way, when tragedy strikes, and hope fails, no additional explanations are needed. No follow up questions need to be answered. That way, one is not required to relive the disaster countless times over.
But I am a fast learner. I rarely make the same mistakes twice. And I'm good at keeping busy, so these thoughts will be far from my mind.

Noise Addict

The phone rings and she answers it, grasping at straws and finding a lifeline. The quiet is shattered and she once again has her fix, for a time. She will drag it out for as long as they let her. There is never a long pause or substantial break in the conversation. She keeps up a constant stream of words, discussion even the most trivial things. What is it about silence that scares you? What is it about being alone that intimidates you? Perhaps all this noise allows problems to be left unsolved. Perhaps it helps you not to dwell on unpleasant things. You even avoid sleep whenever possible. Sleep, the time your mind is most vulnerable. When your subconscious dredges up all the thoughts and memories that you try hard to suppress while you're awake. What are you bottling up? There has never been a secret you've been able to keep except your own. What are you so worried to reveal? Surely you wish to share, but you just as surely refuse. What causes you indecision? You, always so sure, always so unwavering. You, the very definition of confidence, almost to the point of being viewed as proud and vain. But I know that act, I've rehearsed those lines. You're very convincing, but I'm beginning to see the stage lights now. Don't worry, I'll play along. I won't call your bluff yet. I'm not even sure you realize what you're doing, perhaps it's just so ingrained into you. It wouldn't be the first time you have claimed no knowledge of your own actions. So I will smile as you continue to carry the conversation, since you require so very little of me. And when you hang up and the connection breaks I hope that you don't fall back into the fear and hopelessness. I hope one day you find peace and contentment in the silence. I hope one day you will embrace solitude instead of running from it. Maybe one day you will ignore the phone when it rings.

Warts

Someone can say "I don't care what anyone else thinks", but they're either lying or have never experienced a genuine human relationship. I'd say that kind of mindset is unrealistic, and when it comes down to it, unhealthy. I think it's natural to want other people to have a high opinion of oneself. I'd say it's fine to want other people's approval. Not everyone mind you, but a select few people who's opinions are of value and help bring balance to your life. I care about what other people think, even if I come off otherwise. I care about the opinions of people that know me. People I've shared real things with; real emotions and real experiences. People who have seen me cry. People who have seen me embarrass myself. People who know things about me. And not very many people fit all of those criteria, and that doesn't bother me. It's easier when less people know you. It's less tempting to keep up appearances. And maybe I'm scared of getting hurt, maybe I tend to avoid it subconsciously. But let's not sugar coat it, opinions can scar a person. Words can leave deep gashes if you let them. No, gashes isn't the right metaphor. They're like warts. They don't go away when you cover them with a band aid. They don't just heal over with time. The only way to get rid of them is to let the chemical remedies burn them away. The chemicals have to painfully eat away at the wart, and then to ensure it doesn't return, the chemicals have burn away the roots and the surrounding area. People, and opinions are the same way. You can pretend everything's fine. You can cover it all up, or put it out of your mind. But you will never be free of the chains words put on you until you cut you ties, and let it all burn. A piece of you will feel pain. A piece of you will burn, but it'll strengthen you in the end. You won't let opinions matter that much to you in future. You won't let people get so close, to have that kind of impact. And fire purifies, so it's okay to just let the fire burn. Someone once asked where out identity is derived from. Is it defined by what we see in ourselves, or by what other can see? Your call.

A Lifetime of Music Boxes

She packs her little red suitcase as the last light of sunset streams through her window. Images of leaving had consumed her thoughts more than once before. The room lies in pieces, her closet still quite full. She packs like a child, not so worried about the everyday essentials. Instead she packs the things she can't leave without. Photographs cover the bottom, old photographs. Photographs of those few brief moments when life actually seemed full of joy. Drawings are carefully placed in a folder. She doesn't really need the drawings, but she needs for no one else to have them. The clothes that she does pack are wrapped protectively around a lifetime of music boxes. One smothered music box plays it's soft muffled tune. Always the same, the song is always the same. One tangible consistency in her life. Each song is linked with a time, a memory, a feeling. Never any words, just a simple melody. Eventually the distance between the individual notes increases and the music slows. The following silence echos through the empty house. Each vacant room proclaiming their indifference to her departure. The zipper sticks as she tries to close the suitcase, forcing her to remove and abandon another part of her life. Life has been a journey of sacrifices. Leaving however, didn't feel like a sacrifice somehow. Giving up the world wasn't all that difficult after all. A wallet and car keys lay on the dresser, the tools for building a new life. She rolls her little red suitcase out the door and doesn't look back.