Letters, Letters to My Future Soulmate, Life, Living, Love, Poetry, spirituality, Thoughts

letters to my future soulmate // the third

Mon amour,

Where are you? I’m waiting. Waiting for you to arrive. Waiting for that moment when you walk into the room and I know – just know  – this is it, this is the woman I’ve been waiting for. I’ve finally found you. I wait because when that moment comes, I want to remember exactly what it felt like. I want the moment I fell in love to be indelibly written upon on my heart. So that for the rest of our lives when we go through the hard times and the painful times and the dry times I can hold onto that feeling of first loves and it will carry us through.

Where are you? I’m floating. People tell me I need to learn to be happy loving myself first. That I need to figure myself out first. That maybe God’s going to make me wait longer so that I can keep growing. I’ve dreamt since before I can remember that I would find you and we would marry young. The same age my parents were when they married, in fact – 21. Well, here I am at 21 and you’re nowhere in sight. People tell me that maybe God’s going to make me wait. Three, five, ten more years. I’m not okay with that. Because I’m floating. My life is great. I have a great family and amazing friends. But my life isn’t moving. I’ve paused. And I’m frustrated because I can’t see my future. I can’t see you anywhere. I can’t see the family I’ve always wanted. All I can see is the lonely nights. And all I can hear is people telling me to trust God and I’m trying, but how do I do that when that means letting go of you. At least for now. Because there’s an empty place in my heart where my future belongs.

I don’t understand. Why does this generational curse linger upon me? Why am I forced into the stereotype by the millennial generation? They tell me, “You millennials are getting married older anyway. It’s okay.” No, it’s not okay. I’m different. I always have been. And I’m my own person. I don’t deserve to be confined by a group of people who are known for being lost. That’s not me. I know what I want. But I’m forced into waiting by a God who apparently thinks I’m not ready and I’m just supposed to be okay with that.

I’m angry and I’m learning to let go of you, to trust God. Because apparently that’s what I’m supposed to do. I know God hears my prayers, and sees my tears, and He feels the lonely nights. I know He wants to see me grow stronger. I don’t doubt that. But why does He have to crush me to do it? Why does He have to take the one dream I’ve always had and crush it?

I can only hope He knows what He’s doing. I can only hope He doesn’t forget me in the chaos. I can only hope whatever it is He’s making me wait for, it’s good. And I can only hope that I learn to trust Him in time.

But for now, I wait.

With love,

Yours

Poetry, Thoughts

beauty in the chaos

As I shut my computer, letting the weight of Kill Your Darlings sink in, I felt a stirrings.

There has always been something strangely alluring to me about poetry. I never really gave it much though ’til now.

I think it’s the same reason as why I prefer abstract painting to realistic painting – there’s beauty, even a certain order, in the chaos.

Poetry, to me is chaotic. At least, the kind I read. Free verse, no rhyme or reason or rhythm, just utter abandon and free expression of inner thought and philosophy. I almost prefer poetry to writing in some ways. There’s a depth to it I struggle to explain. Poetry, like most writing, is something you feel. Unlike most writing, poetry tends to be abstract and open to interpretation.

And as I finished Kill Your Darlings, the sudden realization of how poetry has managed to seduce me hit me like a wave. I write poems – quite often, as a matter of fact – and they’re nothing grand or extraordinary and they aren’t even consistent. Instead, they’re fragmented and some are short – a sentence or two – and others are long. But they carry a weight, an abstract chaos, to them.


Poetry is a hard thing to explain, admittedly. I find I’m intimidated by the very idea of showcasing some of my works to close family or friends. I fear they won’t understand, that they may mock the idea of written self-expression. These fears, however unfounded, have haunted the great poets of every generation, I suppose.

Gone are the days when writers could be found on every street corner. The Beat Generation, when literature was changing the world, has passed. Now, people look to the vastly biased and deeply shallow World Wide Web for education and revelation. Books are increasingly rare, replaced by computers and Kindles. Writers with any sense of depth become fewer and fewer as illiteracy sweeps through homes like the Black Plague.

I feel like I was born for an era not my own. Perhaps Kill Your Darlings romanticized the Beat Generation for me, perhaps I’m wishful for a time that doesn’t exist, perhaps I’m lost in daydreams.

Maybe so.

But there’s something about poetry that has always felt displaced, even rebellious. Many assume it to be a feminine act; many others find it a waste of time. Once, free verse was considered abominable, and the epitome of literature was that which never broke the rules. But isn’t writing meant to break barriers? Isn’t it meant to venture into unexplored frontiers? Don’t we have poetry to thank for our philosophies and ideologies?

People may not know it, but vibrant and chaotic self-expression exists at our core. In fact, I would argue that it is, perhaps, one of the many building blocks of any great nation.

There is beauty in chaos, because chaos, by definition, breaks the set order of things, it shatters preconceived notions and revolutionizes human perception. Chaotic self-expression is necessary. That is, if you intend on changing the world.

And I fully intend to do so.

Poetry

treasure map

I am composed
of fragmented thoughts and dreams,
interconnected like threads
on a tapestry, and yet
somehow separate, one from another.
My words,
bloody and broken,
like my heart,
scattered across canvas and paper –
parts of me
reserved for you.
I fall and I wake.
I bend and I break.
I speak and I hear.
I breathe and I feel.
I’m human, just like you.
The things I’ve seen,
the places I’ve been,
markings on a treasure map –
the next place, better than the last;
the future, better than the past.
Step by step,
inch by inch,
breath by breath,
moving print –
a treasure map from me
to you.
Copyright – Brian McBride, 2016
Poetry, Writing

where you’ll find me

"Someday i'll wish upon a star,  wake up where the clouds are far behind me,  where troubles melt like lemon drops,  high above the chiminey tops,  that's where you'll find me"

“where you’ll find me”

where the sand meets the sea

that’s where you’ll find me

wandering

wondering

roaming the jagged line

that gently divides

land and tide

where the wind meets the trees

that’s where you’ll find me

growing

reaching

extending to the sun

above roots that run

‘tween pain and love

where the stars meet the night

that’s where you’ll find me

burning

shining

lighting the atmosphere

with all that i hold dear

to guide you here

come

swiftly

for where i am is not where i was

where i will be;

that is where you’ll find me

-brian mcbride