Find the Spark Inside (Old Letters)

find the spark inside and let it burn

Dear __________,

I love you. I love you. I love you. And in those three times that I say that, it doesn’t mean nearly enough as it should. And you could be one person or many people, or everyone, and maybe you’re even me. I don’t even know anymore, but all I know is that a simple 'I love you' isn’t enough anymore, for me.

And I know I love you more than I really should, but I can’t help it. I can’t stop my feelings for you when you ask me to. I can’t stop the way you look at me, and the way I know that if I were to kiss you that you’d kiss me back, and I KNOW you would, but sometimes I’m too scared to ever try.

because 'I love you' just isn’t enough anymore.

And I’m so scared that I’m going to lose you somehow, because you are such a large part of my life and who I am, and I’m not going to say the things that make you perfect, because like I said earlier, you could be anyone.

I could have put a leaf-bag pumpkin on top of your car, or I could stay late with you when you’re crying, or I could lay awake on cold nights with you laughing about obscene noises, or I could share blue bottles and moments with you, or I could share a notebook and a past with you. Or maybe that’s all of you.

Or maybe like I said before, maybe it’s me.

And why can’t that all be enough for you. All of the little memories that you and I alone share? Why can’t it be enough that I can hold your hand when I’m crying, and not have to worry about being someone I’m not, because you are the person I am most myself with.

And dammit I love you but it’s not enough.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I want to fall asleep and wake up beside you for the rest of my life, and I want to be able to tell you that I still sleep with a teddy bear and you tell me that it’s adorable. I want to be able to argue with you like we’re married even though we’re not. I want to be able to tell you everything.

And i want 'i love you' to be enough and so much more.

But it’s not like that. We are not like that. You are not, and I am not, and that makes all of this that much harder, because I’m not sure where I begin when I am with you, and when I am without you, and when you hold my hand, I cry inside because maybe even that means more than me telling you that I love you, but maybe it doesn’t, and maybe nothing ever will, and maybe you’ll never believe me, but I always believe you.

God, it’s late and I’m talking to myself, or maybe it’s you, or them, or everyone, or no one. And maybe I’m just lonely because you’re not here, and I am, but maybe you are here and I am not and I just don’t know what to do with myself anymore without you.

Maybe you’re the asshole, or the bitch, or the blue, or the pain in my stomach when I’m trying to fall asleep on cold nights like this one, and even though I’m so fucking warm that I can’t fall asleep, I shiver because I miss you, and I need you, and I want you to be with me right then and right there, and I want to remember so many of those damn little memories that I think are important, and you never remember. And I love you.

But it’s not fucking enough.

I want to be with you forever. But like I said, maybe you don’t exist and maybe you’re everyone, or no one, or me. I don’t even know anymore and I’m just talking myself in circles because you do that to me. You make me want to be more. Not more than anyone else though. Not perfect. Not superman. You make me want to be more than me. And let me tell you, that burden, that little information stuck somewhere in the back of my head that refuses to come out, is a hard thing indeed. It’s hard to know that you’re not at your best. You’re not what you could be. And I’m not. I’m me, and I’m NOT superman or perfect or anything better than myself.

I am me. And you are you. (Which could be no one, or everyone, or even me.)

God, I love you.

I haven’t even figured out what it is I’m trying to type here. What metaphor or point I’m trying to get out this time, but I just figured that I’d talk or more or less type myself in circles and walk away feeling better about everything. About the fact that I love you and it’s never going to be enough. But I think I just managed to make myself feel bitter and horrible about not kissing you more, or holding you more, or being there for you more, and I hate myself for that. And you, at this point in the letter, don’t even know who you are. I’m not sure if I know who you are. I don’t think I’ll ever figure that out.

But know this. The one thing I wanted to accomplish with this one little, stupid letter. This one little stupid part of my past, and maybe even my present, and future, is that I love you.

And I will always love you. Always and forever, and even if you ever go away and leave me alone in this big huge world all by myself, I’ll still love you.

Even though it is not enough.

29 minus 7

I was not popular in high school.

I also want to say that I wasn't UN-popular either.  I had a lot of friends, they were just the rough outcasts like myself.  I was in band.  I loved being in band.  I was made fun of for being in band.  I loved Hanson.  I was made fun of for liking Hanson.  I drove a silver Dodge Aries.  I was made fun of for driving a silver Dodge Aries.

My friends were divided into band friends, and non-band friends.  I had acquaintances who I had random classes with, who I got along with, but who I would never dream of hanging out with on a Saturday night.  I tried melding my band and non-band worlds and it never worked out too well.  There was resentment and hurt feelings.  I felt like the third wheel a lot.

I had two boyfriends in high school.  One was the beginning of my freshman year, the other was the end of my senior year.  I'm not sure what happened in the other years, but I do know there was a lot of kissing going on, but nothing official in the ways of a relationship.  Most of the time I just wanted to hang out with my friends, cruise main, eat at perkins, smoke cigarettes, drink beer or vodka.

Nichole and I would sleep out on her trampoline, her mom making us cinnamon rolls in the morning.  Steph and I would sneak out of my house late at night and not come home until the sun was coming up.  Sarah and I would meet boys at school playgrounds.  Maryann and I would drive out of town to meet up with boys we met the previous weekend.

My hair was burgundy, I was probably a good 10 or 15 lbs underweight but still saw myself as a cow.  I was desperately unhappy and I knew very little even though I thought I knew it all.

It's hard for me, as one of the out crowd, to socialize with some of the people who I always thought they thought they were better than me in high school.  The cheerleaders, the jocks.  All of the people whose parents could buy them the most expensive clothes and shoes, who bought them nice cars and who didn't have to spend their afternoons and evenings waiting tables in order to buy gas for their cars.

I realize now that all of that was an illusion.  Popularity in high school doesn't mean jack in the real world.