Don't give up five minutes before the miracle happens. Melissa Ferrick
I give up on things quickly, slinking away from them as quietly as possible with my shoes in my hands and holding my breath. I do this because my life gets too full, too top-heavy. I do this, because in the same breath that I crave unending intensity; I fear the too much of things--afraid, always, that I will be impotent in anything close to perfection.
I have left lovers.
I have left friends.
I have left myself curled into a ball, buried behind the every day of life.
And I am not good at waiting for outcomes--whether I expect them to be good or bad, for my courage is a rusty bucket that weakens further with each drop of water it's expected to hold.
But sometimes beautiful things find me, sneak up on me just when I've convinced myself I'm not expecting them.
In the past two weeks:
I have become closer to a beautiful, sensitive, kind woman.
I have discovered that I don't need to pour myself out until I have nothing left for someone to love me.
I have re-discovered an old platonic-romance with a college friend--one of the most beautiful men I have ever known, and he is coming to Boston to spend Thanksgiving with me.
And then there are the smaller things:
My breath caught when I passed a perfect, pink rose covered with dew yesterday morning on my walk to the subway.
I played freeze-tag with my roommates.
My upstairs, upstairs neighbor left me a jar of homemade black-eyed peas outside my apartment door.
I wrote a poem for myself.
But most importantly, I find myself waiting a little longer before I think of leaving, and I may, in the end, remain.