Messy

Sitting in the half light in front of my laptop, its screen the only source of illumination, I pause and think about how things are so messy. And by things, I mean love lives. Not mine to be sure (that which does not exist cannot be messy). But I’m involved in a mess by extension and it’s rather uncomfortable.

I don’t know what I can do to help. And believe me, I want to help. She’s my friend. He’s my friend. He likes her. She’s torn and befuddled and all kinds of confused. And here I am trying to mediate. I’m treading softly in unfamiliar territory hoping to God that my foot doesn't stray over some emotional landmine and desperately trying to make sure that nothing breaks.

I feel like a clumsy kid entering the glassware section of the department store. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. Wanting nothing more at the moment than to put all the pretty glass feelings away, encased in layers of bubble wrap and stowed under lock and key in an impenetrable store room. Somewhere I know they’ll be safe... But I'm too afraid to touch anything.

Too afraid because if anything moves, everything will all fall apart; shattering on the cold, white tiles. They’ll end up lying in dangerous bits that will probably cut you when you bend down to retrieve the jagged pieces. It’s not even my life and I’m stressed. Am I caring too much? How much is too much? And how do I stop caring?

Love lives are just so... messy.