Inconsistencies

There are some days I would give just about anything to be alone.  I avoid speaking.  I relish what time I have to myself.  I get frustrated with anyone who interrupts those sacred moments.  Today is one of those days.  I'd love to be alone, listening to soft music and writing poetry.  Even sitting in my favorite place just hearing the water run.  Unfortunately, I don't get that kind of luxury today.

Today I tried to write a poem about my best friend.  I say "tried" because I think I've discovered that I could never put what he's meant to me in words.  He was my first real friend.  Ever.  I don't have to be anything with him.  I don't have to say anything or feel anything or try to act any certain way.  I can just be.  I love that you can sit in silence with him and there's just this understanding there.  This contentment.  I've never known anyone like that.

Last night I had a nightmare that depression hit me again, worse than ever before, and all I wanted was to be dead, by any means.  It terrified me so much to feel that again, and I didn't think I would be strong enough to value my own life.  I went to my best friend in my dream, sobbing and shaking in my dream, just clinging to him after this huge confession.  He just held me and I knew he wasn't going to leave me to face that hell alone.  And if you are wondering if I think too highly of this man, you should know that he would do exactly that if I came to him under the same circumstances in real life.

I had another dream that I made this friend, and it was absolutely incredible.  We just sat at JBU late at night, and he was reading all of my poetry and asking me questions and telling me his favorite parts and I was near tears because I was so overwhelmed.  And I was looking through his sketchbook, adoring every page, staring long and hard (like you're supposed to) so you don't miss *anything*.  It was absolutely wonderful.  

I'd like a friend who studies my words.  I feel happy enough when they read them, but to KNOW the things I call myself, and to ask me questions, and to know lines or titles or just anything.  Someone who dares to ask me my favorite or if I'd read one of my pieces out loud.  Can I have that?  No one has ever done that for me.  It's always just met with fear and ignorance, I think.  Or that horrible thing people call moderation.  (I never was one for moderation- it doesn't leave much room for passion.)

Sometimes I love being the way I am.  Like a gale of wind or like fire, that shifting, driving, inspiring force.  But I've been feeling less than solid lately, and I'd like to even that up somehow.  Sometimes I scare myself with all this shifting.