Happy/Discontent

   When I was young my mother told me to choose my battles wisely. Not every blip in happiness was worth comment. The thought process being that constant complaining takes power away from the truly worthy discussions. I was considering this logic while laying in bed last night. The gentle man was fast asleep, snoring into his dreams, as I studied patterns the tank light made on the ceiling. When so much of your life is going well how do you know when to speak your mind about the things that aren't?
 
   My relationships have always been investigations into myself. Since my dating career began at 15 I've only been in serious relationships with 6 people. All of these lasted for at least a year, most over two and my current is sitting happily at 20 months. I have been lucky to have stability in romantic investigations even though I determined, fairly promptly, that they were not longterm material. I believe the purpose of dating is not so much to find out about the other person but to learn about yourself in relation to them. I've had some great partners. Others fell drastically short. I've been incredibly happy and I've disappointed those who thought they loved me. I have too many poems with too many faces that I haven't seen in years. They only way I remember what they look like is by making connections between my lines. But I will never forget their voices. And sometimes that's a blessing. It keeps me from making the same mistakes.

   Now that I'm older I've learned a few things. Details that, at one point, I found tolerable I won't stand for anymore. I'm much quicker to realize a "no go" when I see it and I don't waste my time on relationships that don't nourish me in some way. This goes for friends as well as lovers. But sometimes things work out by accident. My happiness these days is partly based on my discriminating nature but luck also plays a big part. Right time, right place, right people. I give myself as much credit as I deserve but I also realize that sometimes the success of the equation is based on the formula. And anyone that knows me knows that math... isn't my strong suit.

   So here I sit, happy. An author oblivious about how to write a prince, even when he's staring me in the face. Or snoring in bed beside me. I'm uncomfortable with peace. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next poem to come. When something goes wrong, even mildly, the old panic sets in and once again I am a dry mouthed high schooler stumbling with my words. I'm afraid if I say, "We need to talk...", I'll be left alone in the boat with no paddles, just my own small hands to bail me out. So I'm staring at what looks like a vampiric rabbit painting with a carrot cast by led lights on my bedroom walls wondering how to season the word "unsatisfied" until it becomes palatable. This is not to say I am unhappy. It is rather my observation that even though I could write for days on end my throat is still a well run dry.