The Signs of an X X X.

woman-in-purple-sweater-sitting-on-wooden-floor-with-view-of-789382So, … that’s it.

Three strikes and your X-ed out.

A peak that was frozen over by The X. X. X.


… So, … what’s with that X?

Does it happen because this path and that path cross paths at the, “X?”

They make an X or break an X, or even need to break to become the X… X….. X!?


Sorry let’s clarify.

What happens when a straightforward thing becomes a mess, mess, mess?

Is it best to label it the X, X, X?

Of course it is because we’ve all had a few X, X, X’s…

And when is it ever appropriate for YOU to become the mess, mess, mess.


Sorry let’s specify.

When encountering the X X X

Is it best to be K.O.-ed by the test, test, test?

Take the crossroads and become your best, best, best?

Certainly it is natural to absolutely say yes, yes, ……………YES.


Sorry let’s conclude.

When moving to a next, next, next..

Do some still ponder upon a certain X X X?

Even if we seek out to be our very very best best best

Why do most of us feel we are NOT passing this test test test???



… So, that’s that.

The X X X that has you X-ed out.

Making it no difference if the icicle melted or shattered.




He Likes Her, She Likes Him.

woman-wearing-straw-hat-standing-in-bed-of-sunflowers-1263985He likes her…

Because she is different, adventurous, spontaneous, completely illogical. She has the perfect amount of curves he’s called to, a captivating charisma, a confidence of core character. He thinks she’s a beauty both on a basic biological basis and in brilliance of a bold brain. Her arch in her back sends him wild to the sky, sending messages overseas in a bottle of opened vulnerabilities. He thinks of her as a princess, depicted in his mind as an ideal that can’t be shaken and scratches his head as he shakes off the slumper with another night dreamt of sleeping beauty. What a goddess in his eyes, a pinnacle of potential perfection. She was a light on to him, and he contrasted her glow. What was he to her? The shadow underneath, the repulsive underbelly of way to many nights cramming codes on keyboards. He wasn’t at her level, she was just too pure to be his. So he held out his hand and dramatically took it back, “I guess I’ll just go.” And on he went without her, mopping and trying to man-up, but he was a mess. Mortified to the merical of a possibility, “Could it have been us?” He types her a message in pain of a reply. Why does she barely reply?


She likes him…

Because he’s like a reflection, one with the shine of an extroverted magician, that can spark her fantasies of romantic affairs. He is the exact fit to her storybook ending, a man of charm, a lover of her world. She believes he is stable, even with his unpredictable consistency, he manages himself. She writes letters to him daily she never intends to send. A ritual act that builds up her love of his lips, a lust of the lingering link between them. She wonders about him as she wakes up in the morning, as she goes to sleep at night, and all throughout her walking days. He seems so far away from her now, halfway across the world. Many time zones away, she was ahead of his lifetime and she wonders if she’s ran too far astray. Was she ahead of him? Did she move too quick to capture his concentration? “Was she just too above him?” she’ll wonder as she writes these words on journals she’ll share to the world but will not dare for him to see. “I suppose I could reach out now,” she will say as she sends the first email, a response 4 months overdue. The hurt of her heart hangs hopeful at the positive reaction, but why does she resist to reply?



He likes… nobody knows.

Because his actions are off and the mood of time’s discordant records of behavior calls for him to not know what he wants. Is it her, or is it just,



He likes himself…

Because he has the ability to choose what he wants and where to go, what to do. His freedom is first and frankly that is his choice. He admires his extreme lifestyle and is a diehard addict to a businessman’s pace. He replies back to her for himself. He loved her, he remembers as he trips over memory’s lane.

black-and-white-person-train-motion-42153 (1)

In love there is three sides to attraction:

He likes her, but she likes him, and he likes himself.

But maybe he also likes her?

Because she likes herself.

But him, the him that only likes her, never really likes himself.

So she can never really like him.


Text that Ex?

Tip tap-tip tap the timberland boots march onward without my mind to working with each step taken. I can see the people look at me as I whip by them at New Yorker’s pace. They can see the creases of joy my eyes make.

Breath in the fresh prana, look around at the fresh architecture, and just know yes, we’ve turned the car around. We hit the break, and with a breakdown breakthrough we knew the breakup was the best move. Blinded by a new city of brilliant smiles and wise street lighting the barely dark night hugs any doubt we may harbor. We could be going to a nice cafe, going out with the girls, or even just off to see a new possible love interest. We are on the path of our own choices. We love our life, we love how idealistic our lives have become, how simplified.

There is a cute guy who checks you out and a hot man with a stroller and a husky who doesn’t, and you just know all is right with the world. You did your morning workout, ate just the right amount, and even caught up on some reading.  

But a perfect as our night hours may be traveling around foreign city streets, our hearts remember the question, “What if I were home right now? Would I be so strong? Would I ignore the heaviness my chest harbors with the same resilience?”

Of course not, we know the truth that the second he sent the apology message or said hey on your birthday, we would break right there. We were in love, we still are. No matter how many times your girlfriends say, “your ex is an asshole” or our family encourages us he wasn’t right for us, there is something you just know about this person is different. Something about the situation is a special circumstance.

You are over the problems that seemed to come up in the past and time as well as new people you’ve gotten yourself involved with has shown you the reality of how big those little problems actually were. Everything was fine with your relationship, even almost exactly everything you could want, and if you decided to be bold you could have that with him again.

Yet we are alone. Hopelessly, but happily, isolated at our own free will. With the ability to be with anyone anywhere, however, here we are to ourselves. Sure there will be those that try to penetrate our thick layered bubble, but our hearts have been cut off and kept cold in a chamber within a secret treasure chest we don’t even possess the keys to. All we must do is find the key to unlock it! But this time there will be no helpers in the art to winning our hearts, we must slay the dragon all on our own with our cute manicured princess nails.

We wonder further down into the dungeon, to the pits of self, “Why don’t we just reach out to the one hero we know has the keys to our heart?” The question lingers on a late night glass of wine and lays in our lap as we finally turn off the lights. It’s dangerous in these dark hours, these late hours, these hours that remind you, “What if it’s too late? Has it been too long? Should I have not left him in the dark?” Fingers dancing around the trigger very little stops us but the terrifying final thought, “Maybe he’s with someone else?”

We remove our eyes off the screen we roll our minds back into our blanket and call it a rest. We feel we’ve run out of time the sand in the glass has slipped away and the window of opportunity has ceased to let in a drift.

Tonight is just not that night.