“I’m done. I’m done with the frustration and doubt and moping and excuses. I’m done blaming it all on writer’s block. I’m undecided on whether writer’s block actually exists. But at the moment I feel more like I have a bad case of soul black. Something’s off and I can’t put my finger on it. And I’m allowing it to strip away one of the most fundamental parts of myself. So now I have to fight for it. I’ve come to grips with the fact that it’s not going to be as easy as when I was twelve. I no longer have the stamina or the time to sit and write for hours. But the passion is still there. I want to write these stories more than anything. I want to build worlds and destroy them so that my characters have something to fight for. I want to create characters that last. I want to create worlds that people get lost in. It’s not going to be easy. But that’s alright with me. I never asked for easy. Easy isn’t fulfilling.”
I am in love with his words. I want to hold them to my chest and let them sing me to sleep even though lullabies were never really my thing.
They’re not mine. They belong to some nameless girl on some nameless street with bluer eyes and blonder hair; the picture of perfection. I only borrow them from time to time.
But that’s okay. Loving a person takes time. Loving words takes an instant.
So all that I need is a little bit of time to play pretend; to slip into the shoes of a girl that I’ll probably never meet and fall finally, blissfully asleep.
You offered me Paris once. We were having some absurd conversation about taking over the world, and you promised to win me Paris.
“It’s romantic,” you said.
Without realizing it, I had let you believe a lot of things that weren’t true. And that was the moment that I realized that you wanted a lot more from me than I wanted from you.
When you asked me if I liked you, I said yes. Because I did like you, just not enough to make any sort of commitment. And I made that clear. Or I thought I did.
But maybe I didn’t.
I hurt you and I didn’t mean to and that hurt me.
I didn’t want Paris. I never did. Paris was someone else’s dream; someone else’s idea of a happy ending.
If you had known me half as well as you thought you did, you would have realized that.
You scared me. Did you know that? Every time that you asked me to pray for you before you went out to be with the people that I refused to meet, I was terrified.
Because you were never much for the God thing. You made that clear from the start.
But for some reason, my faith was important to you.
It wasn’t until Paris that I realized that I needed out. By that time, I had waded in too deep to sever ties without hurting you.
I don’t know if you’re ever going to read this, but I want you to know that I’m sorry that I couldn’t find a less painful way to leave than cutting you out all together.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you when it was still easy.
I can see the judgment in your eyes before the affirmation has left my mouth. You cringe, outwardly or inwardly, I see it all the same. I know it was the right thing to do, to tell you. I would hate for you to stumble over it later and feel as if I was hiding something.
“I am a Christian.”
After your initial discomfort fades, maybe in moments, maybe in weeks, you start the barrage of questions. Did your parents force you into it? Do you believe gay people are going to hell? What about people who don’t believe in your God? I didn’t peg you for a Bible thumper.
No, no, I don’t know, and I’m not.
I wish you would see me for me and not for my religion. I am not the woman with the “God Hates Fags” sign. I am not the deacon who molested your next-door neighbor. I am not the new friend who drug you to church that one Sunday and paraded you in front of their pastor so that he could point out all of the problems with your lifestyle. This may be hard to believe, but I’m not particularly fond of those people either.
It has taken awhile, but I’ve gotten used to it. People hear the word “Christian” and think self-righteous, hypocritical, judgmental. The stereotypes are difficult to wade through.
But when I defend my beliefs, I’m being closed-minded.
My hope is that one day people will realize that being close-minded goes two ways. Believing with the majority does not make you a more open-minded person if you choose to belittle what I believe simply because my thoughts are different than yours. It just makes you a jerk with a lot of same-minded friends.
I don’t judge people, but people judge me.
I look at a person and I don’t see their shortcomings. I see their hurts. I see an opportunity to share love. Mine, God’s. And if they ask why, I’ll tell them. But I don’t force it down their throats because that’s not what He has asked me to do.
So I beg of you: before you label me, look at my words and my actions. Don’t pay attention to the others who label themselves Godly people and then throw obscure verses in our face to try and guilt you into repenting. I’m not them and they don’t believe the same way I do.
I wish that I could atone for the mistakes of everyone who came before me and all that will come after leaving destruction and shattered hearts in their wake in Jesus’ name, but I can’t. I have spent half of the discussions that I’ve had about spirituality mopping up after them so that maybe, for once, people will take what I have to say into account without looking at me through the lens of them.
I am a sinner and a hypocrite and the definition of imperfection.
But I love God. And I love you. Without restraint and without question. Because He did first. And if you don’t believe that, that’s fine. If you don’t understand that, I’d be happy to show you, but only if you want me to.
Just please, before you judge me, give me a chance to prove your misconceptions about “people like me” wrong.
I’m not afraid of being alone. It comes with the territory, having a personality like mine. I can sit for moments, hours, days, with no company but my own and be completely content.
But lurking in the shadows of the solitary moments, between each yellowed page, in the space between every word I write, under the bed with the singular pillow sits the crippling fear that one day I will wake up and realize that alone has become lonely, and by then I will have lost all ability to revert one back to the other.
I have neither the prettiest voice,
Nor admirable skill with a guitar,
but there is a certain, simple euphoria
that comes from sitting down
And pretending for a moment
To be a coal miner’s daughter.
I like your soul the best, I think.
Don’t get me wrong. I like all of other other parts of you, too.
But your soul…
It’s sort of blink-and-you-miss-it, but then you wonder how you could never have noticed it before.
And, God, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop staring.
You haven’t caught me as of yet, but I doubt that you’d mind too much if you did.
You’d probably just smile that smile that I’ve come to eagerly anticipate and be genuinely confused.
And that’s what I love about you.