Aureations http://ambercunningham.posterous.com Most recent posts at Aureations posterous.com Tue, 21 Feb 2012 18:02:00 -0800 A Second First Time http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104053690 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104053690

There is the first time you fall in love. Risky, painful, but all around beautiful. It comes with making promises, making love, and ultimately letting someone into your very essence. You let them see you naked; not just in the physical sense, no, but every emotion that could ever be poured out of you will spill in front of them, out of control, as if you were a natural disaster. Yet they accept you; moreover, they hold you closer than you could ever imagine possible in such a state.

You tell them you love them. Before you speak, though, it hurts. Your stomach churns, your muscles feel like they are about to explode, and you can feel your body breaking down. You have to say it now, or you may very well die. So you do. You say it, and everything feels better. You say it, and they say it, and all is damn fine and well.

Things change. You have intense arguments, fueled by jealousy or envy or lust. Whichever deadly sin you choose, it is bound to come up in argument at some point. That is what you do, though. You fight, you apologize, you compromise, and work. You do it because you’ve never felt such a thing in your life.

Suddenly, though, you can’t see anything around you. You’ve lost friends, your ambition has been slipping, your writing has slowed…and you can’t figure out why. You are blind to everything happening around you. Time has stopped, but for the worse.

The feelings fail, the loving slows, and uncertainty and unrest grow in a place that was once radiant. And then it ends one day, and it takes you months to recover. You’ve lost all hope in ever finding someone who can come close to doing those things or saying those words to you and for you, and you give up.

You give up, you give up, you give it all up.

So you cry in your friend’s arms. You cry about it, and all of your feelings spill out there for him to see. This is how it’s always been, only this time, you sense that something is different when he wipes the tears from your eyes. You look into his eyes, and there is an extra spark in them, something you hadn’t quite noticed before. It had always been there, but just now, it has called your attention to itself. So, like many times before, you kiss him. It is a selfish kiss at first, but it quickly turns into a force much more powerful than previously experienced. You fall asleep together, and it is the most restful sleep you seem to have gotten in months.

Cuddle

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You try it. You decide to try it. Why the hell not? You’ve been fooling around for long enough; maybe now is the time to actually get “serious” about things. Weeks pass, and each day the feelings grow stronger. You can’t exactly sense it yet, but they are growing faster than anything you have ever experienced, not even your first time.

You ring in the new year with him, and there is no place you’d rather be than in pyjamas, your too-weak glasses on, no make-up, and atrocious hair with him. The feelings grow.

You spend a week up in Boston with him, and sleep with him every night. You have never been more comfortable in a person’s arms before. Not even your first time.

You begin to get upset. The days go on, and you become more and more nervous. Your muscles ache, you wake in the middle of the night, and your stomach constantly churns. What the hell is wrong with me?

Every look he gives you. Every single glance at you makes your stomach lurch. Your mind races, along with your heart. As always, he knows. He knows everything. He knows more than anyone, moreso than your first.

He asks you what is wrong, and you sincerely have no idea. You try to blow it off, but every time you do, you get more and more overwhelmed, and it reads all over your face. He digs and digs until it infuriates you; you wish he could just leave it alone. You slowly realize why everything has been aching, why your stomach has been churning, and why sleep escapes you at random points in the night while in his arms. You beat around the bush, saying that you want to say it, but you are afraid. You are afraid because you know you feel more than he does. You are afraid because you always feel more for the other person than they do for you.

And after minutes upon minutes of explanation, he says it. You are still timid, but you say it. And you say it over and over and over again, and you tear up because you never thought you’d feel this way for anyone else. You never thought you’d feel like this again.

But suddenly, you do. Ever so slowly, you do.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Tue, 21 Feb 2012 17:37:00 -0800 You Write. http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/you-write http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/you-write

You write.

You write and you write, and you try to think of something to write, and you write of the struggle. You write of the tingling in your fingertips, the electric feel of a narrative that longs to be pressed out by those fragile extensions of your very subconscious. “Let your fingers do the talking.” As if they could even understand the thoughts skipping about in my head.

There is a sudden stillness that happens. That almost frightening slowing of time, the sign of a story being formulated, calling every other thought or function in the brain to a halt. You can feel your heartbeat throughout every inch of your body then, as if you were a time bomb, ready to spill out every single infinitesimal thought that has ever crossed your mind, falling out into this one very work that could possibly spell the end to your worry or anguish or even begin relief or happiness. Or it may not do anything at all but leave ink stains on the page.

Writing-calligraphy

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And that wrenching. Oh, the wrenching in your soul when something begs to be written. Everything tightens up—a coil being wound around a spindle, hugging the walls of sanity so very tightly. As our bodies climax, our natural instinct is to maintain control. Maintain a balance. Perhaps this is what the out-flowing of words does when the pen touches the paper or the fingers to the keys or even the voice to the microphone (because what difference does it make if it is spoken or scribed?). Little do we know that homeostasis can really only be reached after a release. At least, for those who believe in love, anyway.

Your rational thoughts hold so very tightly to your conscious, blocking out any sort of imagination possible. Nowadays, everything is precise. Everything is. The monitor in front of you is there, the numbers, the letters, the codes and colors and music resonating from the speakers: it’s all there. See, with writing, it is as if you are being born again. You are being born into a world that you have not yet discovered. Your eyes are not open. You gurgle through those first few breaths and words because who knows what language this world will want you to speak in? Romantic? Horrific? Realistic?

But see, you never know. You never know what you’re going to get until you do it. So you do it. You write, and you write, and you write of things that you have thought of before, and things you have just realized and have just come to know as great ideas that you want to share with anyone and everyone. And all you know and all you see is different from anyone else’s perspective and anyone else’s train of thought.

All because you write.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham