The movie, awe the amazing, scary and powerfully moving movie. I just returned from seeing Titanic in 3D with my friend, Ann. If it was horrifying, scary and beautiful in 2D it was 10 times so in 3D. Second 3D movie that I really liked and lo and behold it was the same director for both, James Cameron. Why I chose this movie is a mystery as I am feeling so very much like the Titanic right here, right now, as I type. I feel so full of grief and loss that I could burst, I could just rip in half I sink in the depths of the despair I am feeling creeping all around me. It is the dark place looming to take me in and take out my light. I have been here before so this is a familiar place. Though, not a place I ever wanted see or feel again. I never dreamed I ever would be here. I have worked so hard to fight and live my life in the light.
"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." ~Rose Dawson, Titanic
Yes, yes it is. 8 years, 2 months, 11 day, 2 hours, 58 minutes ago I met the man I wanted to open up this ocean to. I prepared for that day in a oh so unromantic way. I lied to him and told him I could only meet him for a half hour, for coffee, and somewhere 15 miles from my house. Why would I do such a thing? Well I didn't know him and it was time for the Super Bowl. Reasonable, right?
I went to Starbucks to meet my blind date, and I was armed with an perfectly laid out escape plan that was created out of necessity of needing one with prior blind dates. I had escaped before and was becoming a pro. As I was mixed with a bit of anxiety, a bit of annoyed, a bit of "hurry the hell up, don't you know it is the Super Bowl?", and some eager anticipation. . .Oh hell, he didn't show up. Not at first, at least. I was ready to leave and he was at the wrong Starbucks.
When he showed up he had a red rose and a coyly tied around it's stem was a teeny, tiny bag of Jelly Bellies. He said it was because I was a Jillybean. How cute and sweet. . .I decided to stay. We began talking and my half hour limit passed. We talked until the store closed, which I believe was 6 hours. I missed the Super Bowl, FOR A BOY! The world stopped, time stood still. A BOY made me miss the Super Bowl, and I was okay with that.
After about a week or so we went out again and then became inseparable after that. Like Jack Dawson he saved me once when I wanted to jump. He literally picked me up and lifted me up. He loved me then. I believe he used to look into my eyes and he wanted to write a story with me. We began writing our story that day of that Super Bowl. It was a love story. We had adventures together. We rode horses in the surf. We rode roller coasters over and over until we puked. (well he puked, and I laughed because I love the rush of roller coasters.) We drank beer and we drank in life. Together. We did all kinds of things and we held hands while we did it. We had a fairytale wedding. We made beautiful children together. The kind of children that make you want to get out of bed in the morning even when you would rather sleep in. We made a lovely little home for those children to grow in. Loving details were put into that home. Our home, our love nest. It was even written into the walls of that home "Darrell and Jill's Love Nest." It is there under the layers of plaster and paint, where someone else now lives.
Somewhere along the way we began writing different stories. His a story of pursuit of wealth and countless hours of a strive toward wealth. A story where a bunch of old men are his brothers and I am a stranger. Me, realizing my wealth is right in front of me and wanting desperately to keep it and share it together. Me not being strong enough to express my needs and hence traveling the road to losing my light. He not being wise enough to see that I need him and I love him enough to cast my needs aside to pursue his dreams at all cost.
Gone are the days of adventure and fun. Gone are the days of looking into each others eyes and hearts with hope and dreams. Gone are the days of building a home.
I don't remember what it is like to have him look at me with love. Most days I feel like he wouldn't love me if I had an Apple logo stamped on my head. The rat race of life and the relentless strive toward wealth and my desires to live life now in the present, instead of a future that is always out of reach, have clouded our love.
We are two separate islands, worlds apart. Enslaved by mechanical devices. He is married to a Macbook and I am buried alive, in my sadness, living my fantasy life through stupid games and vicariously through others who still look into their lovers eyes. Facebook has become my substitute life. We broke up yesterday. Facebook and I. My love and I.
We are broken apart.
We are sinking, like Titanic. There may not be a glue strong enough to hold this. Is there? Is love strong enough to heal the broken spirit. . .the broken dreams. . .the darkness that runs thickly between us? Does he love me still like I love him? If he does, I can't feel it. . . I don't see it. It too is buried.
All I can do now is get down on my knees and pray, and pray, and pray. I have to give this to God because I am breaking inside. Suffering. Drowning. Sinking. In need of being lifted up. I used to think there was no force in this world that could tear us apart, now I cling to the tiniest shred of hope I have left that we can hold it together.
I may not want to put one foot in front of the other but like Rose I must promise to never let go. I must not let go for this. . .
"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." ~Rose Dawson, Titanic
Yes, yes it is. 8 years, 2 months, 11 day, 2 hours, 58 minutes ago I met the man I wanted to open up this ocean to. I prepared for that day in a oh so unromantic way. I lied to him and told him I could only meet him for a half hour, for coffee, and somewhere 15 miles from my house. Why would I do such a thing? Well I didn't know him and it was time for the Super Bowl. Reasonable, right?
I went to Starbucks to meet my blind date, and I was armed with an perfectly laid out escape plan that was created out of necessity of needing one with prior blind dates. I had escaped before and was becoming a pro. As I was mixed with a bit of anxiety, a bit of annoyed, a bit of "hurry the hell up, don't you know it is the Super Bowl?", and some eager anticipation. . .Oh hell, he didn't show up. Not at first, at least. I was ready to leave and he was at the wrong Starbucks.
When he showed up he had a red rose and a coyly tied around it's stem was a teeny, tiny bag of Jelly Bellies. He said it was because I was a Jillybean. How cute and sweet. . .I decided to stay. We began talking and my half hour limit passed. We talked until the store closed, which I believe was 6 hours. I missed the Super Bowl, FOR A BOY! The world stopped, time stood still. A BOY made me miss the Super Bowl, and I was okay with that.
After about a week or so we went out again and then became inseparable after that. Like Jack Dawson he saved me once when I wanted to jump. He literally picked me up and lifted me up. He loved me then. I believe he used to look into my eyes and he wanted to write a story with me. We began writing our story that day of that Super Bowl. It was a love story. We had adventures together. We rode horses in the surf. We rode roller coasters over and over until we puked. (well he puked, and I laughed because I love the rush of roller coasters.) We drank beer and we drank in life. Together. We did all kinds of things and we held hands while we did it. We had a fairytale wedding. We made beautiful children together. The kind of children that make you want to get out of bed in the morning even when you would rather sleep in. We made a lovely little home for those children to grow in. Loving details were put into that home. Our home, our love nest. It was even written into the walls of that home "Darrell and Jill's Love Nest." It is there under the layers of plaster and paint, where someone else now lives.
Somewhere along the way we began writing different stories. His a story of pursuit of wealth and countless hours of a strive toward wealth. A story where a bunch of old men are his brothers and I am a stranger. Me, realizing my wealth is right in front of me and wanting desperately to keep it and share it together. Me not being strong enough to express my needs and hence traveling the road to losing my light. He not being wise enough to see that I need him and I love him enough to cast my needs aside to pursue his dreams at all cost.
Gone are the days of adventure and fun. Gone are the days of looking into each others eyes and hearts with hope and dreams. Gone are the days of building a home.
I don't remember what it is like to have him look at me with love. Most days I feel like he wouldn't love me if I had an Apple logo stamped on my head. The rat race of life and the relentless strive toward wealth and my desires to live life now in the present, instead of a future that is always out of reach, have clouded our love.
We are two separate islands, worlds apart. Enslaved by mechanical devices. He is married to a Macbook and I am buried alive, in my sadness, living my fantasy life through stupid games and vicariously through others who still look into their lovers eyes. Facebook has become my substitute life. We broke up yesterday. Facebook and I. My love and I.
We are broken apart.
We are sinking, like Titanic. There may not be a glue strong enough to hold this. Is there? Is love strong enough to heal the broken spirit. . .the broken dreams. . .the darkness that runs thickly between us? Does he love me still like I love him? If he does, I can't feel it. . . I don't see it. It too is buried.
All I can do now is get down on my knees and pray, and pray, and pray. I have to give this to God because I am breaking inside. Suffering. Drowning. Sinking. In need of being lifted up. I used to think there was no force in this world that could tear us apart, now I cling to the tiniest shred of hope I have left that we can hold it together.
I may not want to put one foot in front of the other but like Rose I must promise to never let go. I must not let go for this. . .
and this. . .
. . .and this. . .
. . . and even this. . .
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