Blonde Feeling

I don’t want to be that girl that you wonder about. Wonder if she’s okay, wonder what went wrong, wonder if you will ever see her again…

I’m pregaming a forlorn state. I’m going out of my way to do the math that I don’t really need. Calculating the probability of my next error in judgement, my next spoke-too-soon, my next descent from hope. How long is it going to take, how long is it going to stay, and when it naturally goes, how long will it be gone?

A phenomenon that was long lost on me was a sense of adventure in all of its purity. Adventure for adventure’s sake instead of a contrived attempt to alleviate the weak, dull disease of wasting time with someone when you’re too scared to be alone. That honeymoon phase sensation, that fleeting cutesy ditzy one, it’s a blonde feeling, it’s ethereal at first and then it’s nothing more than another blonde. The stereotypes laugh in your face, they rub it in, you thought you could beat them but they always win. You try to recapture that sensation with your ill-fated at best partner by dragging yourselves outside, maybe light trespassing, light vandalism, maybe fool around on the sand, maybe drink and drive… all of this might reignite that blonde feeling for a brief moment, but it’s really just the negative of the film. It’s vaguely familiar but vaguely unsettling. It’s but a ghost, washed away of the hues that once brought you such solace, even a bit of joy, light, love. That blonde feeling was just bleach all along. I have more respect for those who fry their hair to be blonde than those who naturally are. But only if they own it.

When you not only delay the inevitable, but go out of your way to revolt against it, you are hiding, you’re betting on borrowed time, you are treading water and getting nowhere. The courage to leave had no choice but to find me, and when it did, I was evergreen. Everything became baroque to me. Everything was a romantic, hedonic metaphor. It wasn’t contrived, it wasn’t desperation, it was finally understanding what it meant for me, just me, to be alive. Not living through or in subservience to someone else, to each other’s pain, to each other’s relentless scars. Left with only my own now, all mine to keep, to cherish as reminders of where I went and where I ended up. The lines come one after the next, they come in sets…tally marks of dead sparks, tally marks deeming the curse tangible, tantalizing and petrifying, that was to be expected…

Now it’s all adventures of my own, and even the ones that are shared are with those whom I’m blissfully aware are evergreen, they are the sleepers anchoring the rails of my treaded track. I might be the girl some of them wonder about. They will often wonder if I’m okay, they will often wonder where it goes wrong, but they will never have to wonder if they will see me again.