Five minutes, any day. Spent writing—something anything not for anyone anything no edits no outlines no plans no correction, this is where it goes.enjoy.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Determination and Defect

Determined. That's what I saw when I saw you, when I looked in your eyes. Grim, beautiful determination, and you were ready, willing, and capable to take on whatever came your way.
Determination is kind of an interesting thing when it comes to you, though. You can be wonderfully set on something, and intend to do it, to complete everything, to tie every loose end you've ever created, and I watch you, after you work and work until your fingerprints are worn thin, and you're burning out, and wearing down, and you're exhausted.
I wish your determination was less of a compulsive drive pushing you on, on, on, and more of a constructive feeling, inspiring you to do, and do well, and stop, and enjoy what you have done.
You mustn't mistake striving for determination, my love, is all.
You worry me sometimes. But I know all I can do is pull you close to me and let you rest your tired head on my shoulder, just beneath my collarbone, where you can hear my heartbeat, and you can just exist for a while. No striving. No determination. Just rest.
I love it when you rest.
You live in such perpetual hurry. Calm down. Slow down. Breathe, and taste the air. Blink, and feel your eyes refresh themselves. Open them, and focus on the flowers.
Busy, busy, busy, my love. Won't you rest for just a moment with me?


There's nothing wrong!
Did you know that? Did you ever stop and pause, and think, of your own volition, that nothing is wrong?
Well, think now! Nothing is wrong.
No defects. No issues. No problems.
The grass is green. The sky is blue. The clouds are fluffy and light and white. The flowers are smooth and inviting. Birds sing. Warmth envelops you-- not heat, just warmth. The air invites you, welcomes you, captivates you.
All of nature was arranged by someone who loves you inconsolably. With an aching, passionate, desperate love. He pours out his time into making his garden, his canvas, his entire world, beautiful, for you.
And you say you're defected. You're hurting. You're broken, and lost, and alone, and you just want to cry, and cry, and slip into the darkness and let everything go away because you hate it, you hate the light, it hurts your weeping eyes and you just want the day to leave you.
Can you imagine the pain that makes him feel?
Nothing is defected. His creation is beautiful, made for the beautiful woman he loves more than the universe, more than anything else he would make. Made for her. For you.
Please, don't say you're defected.
He made you so carefully.
He loves you so drastically.
Please-- for his sake?


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