I miss the mountains

The Mountains are made from movement of rock and stone as they push together and form a beautiful landscape. Mountains are steady and strong. Mountains stand tall. The ocean is a world of unknowing, with dangerous waves and vicious sharks waiting just beneath the beautiful and seemingly calm surface, underneath the glistening salt reflecting the sun to take your life away at the blink of an eye.

So why do most of us prefer the ocean?

I prefer the mountains, because when I'm with the mountains, I can see the sky. I can drive for hours with the mountains and lay in the trees, just thinking of the stars and how far away they are, but how happy I am not knowing.

I miss the mountains because the mountains were beautiful. I miss the moment I'd enter the canyon, when I'd smile because I knew how much work God had put into this painting. Each leaf a reminder of a memory both good and bad. As the year goes on, falling off the tree and hitting the ground, to be covered up by snow, and almost forgotten.

All I can pray is that the leaves will come back in April, that each year I can learn to appreciate each and every leaf, not to let it be buried again. Not to let the leaves fall into the ocean, for there they will surely be forgotten.

I miss my hammock, and trying to find the right trees to put it in, because that was the only thing that could get in the way of the mountains and I. The trees that held me up doing so because they care about me, though they just met me for the first time in years.

But when my feet were upon the ground, I'd take off my shoes to feel the rocky earth beneath, though the water was cold, I didn't mind as I crossed the river flowing faster than my heart beat. The mountains were steep, but they push me to the top, and through the wind I can hear them telling me that they're proud, that I can make it.

The mountains know me, and they know my vulnerabilities. My insecurities and my faults, and the mountains have forgiven me more times than I deserve.

All I want is to sit on the rock with you, mountains, and hold you as close as the trees hold the ground, pushing up the asphalt on the road with how happy you make me, like the road is my chest, unable to hold back my rooted heart trying to reach yours.

The mountains are made for me, and I for the mountains. 

God doesn't make mistakes.

So much on my mind, yet none of it will come out. I want to blame God for everything wrong, but he pulled me back for so long, and told me to leave over and over. But I never listened.

Even when I did, I had something better for a moment. I traded gold for water, but I had grown so familiar with the water. So addicted to the taste, though the water was salt, that I gave up the gold for the water, and drowned again. I have no riches, nothing to give to anyone, and nobody to give it to, and riches are hard to come by.

The gold I had may not have been physical gold, but worth so much more to me than any physical substance.

Now there's a nervous bleeding in my brain, that I won't be what I want to, and my shoulders are as tense as toes that hang off the edge of a cliff, and I can't open my eyes for a fear of seeing what I don't want to be true, but I know to be so.

Eyes like an ocean

January of 2015

I've never been on the ocean. At least not more than 100 feet. I've always wanted to go there, but my heart sort of keeps me here on land. I want to set sail for new adventure, and maybe even smile while I'm out there.

My chest beats faster than I've really felt it in a while, and I can't tell if it's beating normal, because of how slow it's been, or if my heart is finally getting off his lunch break. 

Like I said, I don't know the sea very well, but I've always wanted to explore it, and your eyes seem to be the next best thing. I don't know you much more than I know the Atlantic, but your emotion is as big as the waves, and as bright as the sun that I forgot sat high in the sky. 

I don't know you very much, and I told myself that I was done listening to my heart, but maybe this one Friday will be different than all the others. One where I can forget the land, and sail away with my eyes closed.

I'm not even really sure how poetic this is, but It's what's on my mind.

I want to sit down on the pier, and stare into the sea just wondering what's beyond, and what lay ahead. Because when I'm talking to you, it's like I can be happy again. 

Hands

I can lie to them. I can lie to myself. but I've never been a good liar.

I can hide from them. I can hide from myself. But my hiding spots keep getting broken. 

My wrists are broken, and I can't hold your hand. Which is almost okay, because your hand is afraid of mine. I'll just keep it to myself, and let it heal with my heart, like a kid who is broken, who plays with other broken kids to hide his broken wrist. 

My hand just wants me to fall in love. It hasn't ran its fingers across someone's face, to tell them they love them. 

It wants to be interlocked with that of hers, to get to know the folds on the skin of another person. To show them the lines on the inside of my hands where my fists have been clenched for far too long. to hope their lines look similar, to know if they're right for me. 

Give me a set of hands that knows where it's been, and wants to change where it's going. A set of hands who knows about my dream, and why I think it was supposed to happen. 

A set of hands that knows how to pray to God, because He knows I can't pray for myself enough with just my bloodied hands. 

Her hands are callused from lifting the weight of the world, her fingers from fretting the strings of her sins, which are a lot like calluses.

The more callused you become, the less pain you feel. Your skin turns to a hard shell that dries and cracks, but is numbed to the pain from pushing yourself too hard in places you maybe shouldn't. 

In a full world.

I'm writing again. And this time around is no different than last time.  I somehow feel alone in a world that has almost 7 billion people. How is that?

I feel like the only thing I ever did was jar up my time and give it to her, but she says otherwise. The only person I communicated with, yet she says she misses having real conversations with me.

I don't talk to anyone else, I don't spend my time with anyone else, yet I still have the audacity to say that everything's going swell in my life.

I truly was swimming in her ocean, and I forgot how horrific the taste of salt water filling my lungs was. In fact, I couldn't even tell what part of my drowning was her saltwater tears or the ocean of her eyes suffocating me as I looked into them.

A part of me is glad to be on the beach again. So secure. As the tiny rocks sink between my toes with a warmth only describable as pleasant, I can't help but think of how good the ocean is from the sideline. Maybe I'll stay here a while.