I Wait For You

Tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine.

Mine is ugly, and dark,

but maybe yours is too.

Mine is full of agony, pain, and frustration,

a tale of bloodied hands and battered hearts,

but maybe yours is too.
Mine still hurts when I tell it,

words of wounds that have yet to heal,

but maybe yours does too.

Share with me your pain, and I'll share with you mine.

Mine still keeps me up sometimes, 

but your weary eyes speak of the same troubles.

Mine tells me I'm unrepairable, 

but your heavy shoulders speak of the same despair.

Speak to me of the strength that you have found, and I will tell you of mine.

Mine puts my trials to shame, 

tell me yours does too.

Mine has turned it's face to see the light,
maybe yours has always seen it.
Mine is patient, ready to try again,
maybe yours is too.  

Late Night Life Lessons with Pabst and Sigur Ros

     Maybe it's the figuring out, over and over and over again.  Learning and relearning lessons that I already knew.  Or maybe it's the realization that nothing ever really changes, except me.

     Moving and shifting and growing and learning...  Changing this and running from him and chasing after her.   Running and running to escape the soiled, irreparable messes made, to catch up to that ever elusive, long awaited version of myself.  Am I running from something really terrible?  Am I chasing something truly worthwhile?  Does it matter?

     Only I matter.  My being, and my reason for being.  This life will be what I shape it into, a blurred collection of chaos and victimization, or a persistent existence fraught with intention and meaning.

It is what I want it to be.

It's purpose I'm running for.  It might be what's making me run, it might what I'm running towards...   Either way, it has me running.  The existence and the promise of purpose.  A life restricted by responsibility, ready to burst with opportunity.

It is what I make it.

So I'll make it something worthwhile, because it is.