Posts tagged with "equivocality"

Missing A Ride

I almost did some­thing stu­pid crazy excit­ing adven­tur­ous tonight. But I didn’t. Maybe it was too last-minute. Maybe I was feel­ing too shy and intro­verted. Maybe I’m com­pla­cent. Maybe I’m too com­fort­able where I am right now.

Maybe the con­se­quences of fail­ure were greater than the poten­tial gains of success.

Sometimes I won­der when the scales will tip that bal­ance. When — if ever — will I be unsat­is­fied enough with things to step out of my com­fort zone and take those chances?

When will I catch that ride?

Minus Time Served

I sup­pose I’d have more to say if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve pretty much said every­thing already. I’ve dealt with the uncer­tainty, the unan­swered ques­tions. I’ve suf­fered enough.

I’ve served my time.

Now I’m free.

A Bitter Belief

Jack: What kind of movies do you pre­fer, the ones with the sad end­ings or the happy ones?

Claire: The sad ones def­i­nitely. I like movies that make me cry.

Jack: Then you’re with the right guy.

Jack is the lead­ing man. Such screen time is only reserved for pro­tag­o­nists, though anti-hero’s fit this mould too. You want to root for him, to dis­cover that in the end he’s smart enough to give up the crim­i­nal life, to stay out of trou­ble, to truly appre­ci­ate the one who loves him. That’s what Claire is bank­ing on too.

She wants to ful­fill the dream that she’ll get the bad boy, and she’ll be the one for whom he gives up his crim­i­nal life. A story that’s been told time and time again, in life and on the screen. But he won’t, and that makes her want him even more.

Through their rela­tion­ship, you have a hard time believ­ing that any­one would be so self-destructive to fall for a guy like this, the way you don’t believe a pro­fes­sional assas­sin would sud­denly develop a con­science when dis­cov­er­ing that his mark is a 12-year-old girl. But this is Hollywood, and we’re lead to believe that any­thing is possible.

And as he cleans Claire’s blood off his bed­room floor, you real­ize that it’s harder to believe he was able to fill a bucket of water from the faucet when he just got out on parole and his util­ity bills have been unpaid for over a year, than a girl falling in love with some­one so bad for her. After all, life has not proven otherwise.

This qui­etly fills you with bitterness.

When Will The Devil Take Me?

It hasn’t stopped rain­ing since I woke up this morn­ing, and now it’s dark, with only the street­lamps and their reflec­tions in the pud­dles for light. It’s cold outside.

This is a good thing.

I feel like the epony­mous char­ac­ter in Onegin. Sitting on the bal­cony in the dead of win­ter, wait­ing for a let­ter. His ser­vant, hand­ing him a stemmed glass of vodka, asks him to come inside because it’s cold. “I like the cold” he replies, as he resigns him­self to his fate.

He walks down the streets of Saint Petersburg, and his motif comes in on the piano, fol­lowed by strings. FADE TO BLACK.

A stoic face to the world. Can I say stoic? I like stoic.

These titles are get­ting harder and harder to write.

And I want to say that I’m melan­choly, but I’m not. But I’m not giddy either. My emo­tions aren’t black and white. They’re a mix­ture of ups and down. I don’t know what to say when I don’t know what I’m feel­ing or what comes next.

I’m just wait­ing. Passive. Yielding.