I was sort of under the impression that the further along I got, the easier this would become. But no, it's just getting more and more tedious. And the prompts are great and all (they really aren't) but I cannot come up with enough things. I mean, you'd think I'd have something good for yerterday's denial and I didn't. Today's word is wind.
Oh, I am so looking forward to this.
He was so fleeting. Time was so fleeting. Everything was fast, just so much faster than she could stand to run after. If you run after something for long enough, you get tired and you start to ask questions and you stop because it doesn't seem so worth it anymore. Because you're aching all over and your head is pounding and you can't breathe. And you know you should still be running but the flesh is so very weak. That's what it was.
Everyone leaves, they always say that they'll stay with you no matter what but let's face it, no one can say that and mean it -- and even if they do, it's not like they can actually deliver. Because life will take anyone and everyone and time will weather them and there will be very little left to stay and fulfill promises and tell you that it was good and just and worth it.
You watch this happen enough, it tends to turn you into a pessimist. I prefer to say realist, as most pessimists prefer to call themselves.
She was so young and so full of potential and she probably didn't know what hit her. It was like, forgive the cliche, lightning. God, I am sorry I used that but I had to. Out of no where, bam, there he was right smack in the middle of her life and she had no idea what to make of him. Mostly, that was alright. He didn't know what to make of him either.
He was the sort of guy you could go on not knowing your entire life and not have it devalued at all. But he was charming (from lots of practice), and she liked that. Who wouldn't like that. He wasn't the best at anything when they met. He was the best at everything when he left. She would never know if it was her of if it was time or if it was just that point in his life when things worked out for no other reason than luck and genetics.
It was a bit at the start of the year, late January or early February when she first learned of him. He slung his bag across one shoulder and left a two-figered salute for a goodbye. They'd never even met, but he saw her staring and he thought it only right to acknowledge her being there. Maybe the goodbye was a bit of thanks for the flattery. Maybe. Or maybe he was just cocky.
Now, at this point, I'm pretty sure we all know what's going to happen. She is going to fall for him. He is going to leave. What if he comes back. Does she get a sequel? Does she get a fiancee? Will she be greeting him at his wedding? Does he die a horrible flaming death jumping off a malfunctioning helicopter? I'm going to say, for all intents and purposes, that he went on to become a world famous musician, though it should be noted that he didn't start out as one. He started out knowing absolutely nothing except how to carry himself.
That would've been enough. I guess. To get by. Probably.
He was a war and she just got caught in the crossfire.
Was it his life or was it hers? Who was the extra and who was the lead? Did it really matter.
"Anyone who comes in your life and gives nothing should be expected to leave having given nothing. To be open and honest and vulnerable is a beautiful thing more people need to take seriously and to heart. It will hurt, but if you never get hurt, you will never know what's out there. And out there is so vast and expansive and who knows. Out there could better than right here." Now that was closing line. There was your two-fingered salute goodbye. There was something you could hang on to.
"What if I miss you?"
She did. Everyday. It was such a pain to watch. I wasn't sure what was worse: being her or having to watch her be. Observers need to be given more credit. For all the horrid things we have to watch, for all the pathetic displays we have to sit through, we still get crap about not participating enough. Being around and available should be participation enough. We document your lives, you ungrateful bastards.
It was still hard for her to accept that out there was better than right here because right here meant home and out there meant not and maybe he could leave but she couldn't. She was more like a tree. And he was more like the wind. Or a cloud. Being and then ceasing, and then after awhile, being again. That was him: inconsistent and everywhere.
And she just was, and was and was and was.
Have you ever watched a tree grow? Not like fast-forwarded through the years, I mean, live. Everyday. It's the most painfully boring thing you will ever do. Next to watching paint dry. And I've done that as well. Generally not good ideas. Don't.
Years later, she would hear his music and get teary and trembling. It would rattle her though she tried her best not to let it through. Because he got to go out there and she chose to stay right here. And she was okay. But when she heard him sing, it was like mid-March or early-April and the sun was out and the birds were singing and he was the present stuck in the past and she would relive the days when he would hold her without excuses or goodbyes or maybe we'll see each other again's. They just were. Like she always just was.
day 14: wind
