(Over)thoughts | A glimpse into the chaos.

Nice*

Posted on June 2 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I can’t stand how she’s just so nice to everyone.

At first I thought I was special to her. She paid attention to me, was interested in what I had to say and spent time with me. But I slowly started to notice she treated everyone that way.

If she were faking it, I could hate her. But her sickening sweetness is actually real.

Even when we're in a hurry, she opens the door for random strangers. She asks the checkout girl at the grocery store how her dog is doing. She knows the FedEx guy by name. And she smiles at everyone.

At times, it seems like I am her pseudo-boyfriend. I hang out with her, spend time with her friends, and listen to her girly ramblings.

I even paid the extra dollar for her movie ticket because she didn’t have enough. She just thanked me and said she would pay me back. Then she gave me a pat on my shoulder. That was all I got in return.

I don't want her money. What I hate is that I could be anyone to her – and not the one.

I am sick of her cruelty. I keep waiting for her to see me differently – for her bright green eyes to look at me the same way I look at her.

But what pisses me off more than anything is that I still can’t stop thinking about her.

If she would just be mean to me, blow me off, be a jerk to me, and give me an actual reason to hate her, I could feel better. Being her friend isn’t good enough. She’s a tease. Love me or hate me. But quit all this in-between crap.

She isn’t as nice as she thinks.

*Fiction

Coordinates

Posted on May 28 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I just want to do
        what He designed me to do
                       and follow
                                  Him.

But I don’t know what that is
(or if I even get to have that)
and He seems to hide from me.

I have no direction.

When I try to figure out
     where to go,
               a current timeline
                    is required
                              for my coordinates to be accurate.

But what if I am missing something?

Or what if I screwed up
     so bad
           somewhere
                     that I am now in an alternate 1985*
                          and my decisions
                                 only branch
                             off
      from a made-up reality?

I am without a compass
                     course
                     aim
                         and I have no guidance.

I am
    m
     e
         a
        n
          d
          e
               r
              i
     n
              g
                     trying to follow
                                  an invisible God
      and His even more invisible
                                       plan.

Failure

Posted on May 26 2012 by J.W. Richmond

This is why I don’t make goals.

When I do –
     if I don’t do it exactly right,
                         or it's incomplete,
                  it means failure.

It may not be that way from anyone else’s perspective (maybe),
but the pressure to meet those goals
is not something I take lightly.

It’s almost as if
a goal equates to a promise.

If I promise I will do something,
I have to follow through
or I am a liar.

That may not be what a goal is intended to be,
but I don’t know how to allow myself the difference.

Giving myself a break = failure.

I get (overly) frustrated
     critical
     pissed off – at myself
                    if when I don’t hit the mark.

Jeff tells me
it does not come from anyone else.

It comes from me.

Other people would probably see
     my disaster
          as no big deal
          not notice at all
          or give me a reprieve
                         and let it go.

But I can’t get past the knowledge
that I didn’t live up to expectations –
even if I was the one who set them.

The world will not end
                          implode
                          fall apart
    if I don’t meet the goal(s) I set.
     And my place in it
          is so small.

So why does the failure
feel so big?

Beginnings

Posted on May 22 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I once pushed myself to write a poem for every day of the year.

Many were forced, obviously. Sometimes I had to write a few at once to make up for the days I wasn’t able to write. But I did it anyway.

Most of them weren’t good.

Some might have a hidden potential. (Maybe.)

I also have notebooks and computer files full of short stories and half-finished longer ones – although I think most of those are even worse than the poems.

Some (most) pieces are better left unread – by anyone.
Some (maybe a few) aren’t so bad.
They might actually be good beginnings –
or middles… (I think.)

Some could be bigger
     if I had the time
          and didn’t have to think about trivial things
                                                    like sleep
                                                   work
                                                   lunch
                                                   laundry.

Maybe I am bound to poems or short stories.

And maybe that’s okay.

Even if no one reads,
     I am writing –
       actively working
                  refining
                  improving (hopefully).

And definitely learning.

Stolen

Posted on May 19 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I could only ever take
          gleanings
       from your reserve –
          clippings
               from the growth
                         you threw away.

You had it in excess
     and
          I
          was
          drowning.

So I stole a piece of me
from you.

It tried to evade my grasp
          sneak through
               my fingered grip,
                    as if the knowledge was clear
                              that I did not
                              belong
                              to it.

It was so defined in you:
              abundant
              solid –
     but in my hands,
          became transparent,
          cracked into fine powder
               until
           invisibility
                    overtook it.

I held the missing piece of me
     before it ceased to be –
               the deep yearning inside
                    for
                    everything
    I need.

But realization
     only pushed me deeper.
Regardless of need
     or impending defeat,
               I am not to have it –
                         because
       it
       would not take me.

Monkeys*

Posted on May 10 2012 by J.W. Richmond

The room seemed to be waiting too.

Walls were painted, pictures of swinging monkeys were hung. Dresser, changing table and an empty crib – they waited.

She stood in the doorway for what felt like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes.

Once they had made their decision, they breezed through every step: agency, classes, proofing the entire house – every outlet, every cupboard – the home study, letters, their book they would show.

And then there was silence.

Were they too strict with their requirements? Did they have too many? No, her husband told her. No, the social worker reminded her.

Probably not even born yet, he – or she – was out there somewhere.

She wondered if that could actually be true, but quickly forced those thoughts out of her head and flicked that single tear out of her eyelash.

No matter how hard she tried to not let her heart go too far, get her hopes up too high, she had to admit they both loved this baby they had never even met already. So this not happening was not an option.

She felt like she prayed the same short prayer every time. Please.

When she tried to read her Bible, she would lose concentration. Until she came across Hannah. Hannah asked – and God heard. Then Elizabeth. Elizabeth lost hope – but God heard.

They had not been able to conceive, but God would hear them anyway. She knew, even if she couldn’t fully believe it. And God would hear that baby who needed a home. That was easier to believe.

As she stared into the room, she could hear the rocking chair on the wood floor, with the small creaks and shifting wood. Through the slats in the crib, there was a small cry, like a distant echo in a foggy dream.

She caught herself smiling for a second when she felt the cat rub against her leg as he trotted into the room. He sniffed the rocking chair and the diaper bag on the floor next to it, then curled up on the rug in front of the changing table.

She breathed in loudly, and quietly laughed through her nose as she walked toward him, scooted him out of the room and shut the door.

For Sara, Jason and Baby.

*Fiction

Chased

Posted on May 6 2012 by J.W. Richmond

The inflicted torment would ease,
      my restraints be released,
          if the shadows that stalk me
                   would disappear –

A clear purpose
     in place of fear
                    as they blur in the cement
                    and drown in the pavement.

If only the demons that chase me
     would turn away –
               approach invisibility,
                             increasingly fade
                                        into a blurred mirage,
                                        an adjacent facade,
                                                     I could be free.

Impossible weights
try to force me in place –
insisting a mandatory fate.

Choking on screams
    as they invade my dreams,
               I hear the taunts
                   as they gain speed.
                             Focusing on my weakness,
                               they aim to feed.

The shadows are quick,
       unbearably thick
             with forceful strength –
                          they have all but won.

I’m left without choice:
Forfeit. Or run.

Mistakes

Posted on May 5 2012 by J.W. Richmond

“I never make the same mistake twice.” – Anne
Anne of Green Gables,
Lucy Maud Montgomery

‘I’ll never make the same mistake
No, never, never, never’
– “The Wind,”
Cat Stevens

I wish I could say
I never make the same mistake twice.
I want this to be true.

It may not look exactly the same
                    each time,
         but I do make the same mistakes
                        over
                        and
                        over –
                            sometimes
                              with only the slightest variation
                                            from before.

Even though it may not be in the same form,
I repeat stupidity.

I learn some things immediately (I think),
even learn from other people’s mistakes (occasionally),
but not every time.
Sometimes I can be pretty dense.

But I hope
     there is some improvement
          along the way
                         even if I can’t always identify it.

Plug

Posted on April 29 2012 by J.W. Richmond

What do you do to plug yourself in –
recharge?

It is a (seemingly) simple,
valid question
that should have a simple answer.

(Right?)

I hate that question.

The last time I was asked,
                  I went into counseling.
     Not entirely because of the question itself,
          but it was part of the equation.

Hearing it asked again,
I hated it just as much as before –
because I still don’t have any answers.

Am I oblivious to myself?
Am I a complete idiot?

I can throw out options
     that worked in the past
                    but
     if I try to repeat a scenario,
          it rarely works the same way.

Are there some things that tend to help?
I think so.
Can I trust that they would work again?
Not at all.

No pattern has been designated yet.
I can’t count on anything.

And even patterns
change.

Nikita

Posted on April 26 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I think sometimes it takes fiction
to speak the truth I need to hear.

In a recent episode of Nikita* after being forced to confront her past, Nikita tells Michael, the man she loves, that she has evil inside her. If he ever knew or discovered the depth of it, he would never – or could never – forgive her.

She was willing to sacrifice herself,
                                     her life –
                                     anything – for him.
      But he shouldn’t do the same
           for her.

If he knew the truth,
he would have to leave
and she would expect him to.

He tells her she might have parts of her that aren’t good,
          but they do not define her.
     She is more than that
          and
              he loves her,
                       anyway.

She later apologizes
     for some of the things she said to him
          when she was in distress –
                    unforgivable things.
She says she didn’t mean them,
     and he says,
          “Yes you did…
            I know it’s not because you don’t love me.
            It’s because you don’t love yourself.”

I choked
because Jeff could have been the one to say all those things to me.

I’m not sure he hasn’t already –
and maybe
I just didn’t hear it.