We all write to someone. To somewhere.
Hello out there, somewhere
Hello to my future
To verbs unconjugated, soon to be employed and all the wrong doings that are still wishful thinking
These days (these wiser days) its all pen and paper
Maybe its all the company I’m keeping:
That highly elusive, emotionally validating, supportive and encouraging kind. The spooky, foreign-feeling kind.
I only trust people who validate how I feel about me. If you think I’m an idiot with bad ideas and messy handwriting who embarrasses myself constantly …well I agree with you. Come, sit, stay a while
Maybe its the new job. Its physically demanding. I’m becoming fitter. Its strange. I’m growing muscle in soft places. I don’t know how I feel about it, except maybe tired.
Maybe its me. Maybe its a lack of creative energy, a lack of serotonin, a lack of motivation.
Maybe it all comes back to what it always comes back to.
I open my laptop and my blog and I get stuck on love. And lovers. And leaving.
None of This was never supposed to be about women and houses.
But I’ve been reading a lot about security and attachment and maybe yeah, my mind will always lead me back to women and houses.
I’m learning what patience is, from a woman who is trying mine with her infinite reserves of it.
I’m paying my rent on time and feeling like the feet in my shoes are supposed to stay there.
Cars are passing me by and I don’t know where any of us is supposed to be going, and why they need so badly to get there faster.
What else is there?
I’m having the kind of existential crisis one has when they leave school under the pretense that they will One Day return.
I’m performing CPR on the version of myself I started killing off this time last year.
I’m keeping my heart soft and open. I’m okay, I think, with how often it hurts to simply be.
I’m good at slamming gates shut, and using my cleverness to sting anyone within arms reach
But my friends just moved to vancouver
And my mom left my hometown
And I keep losing my mind by getting tangled in arguments with myself
So maybe I should just let myself do whatever it is that comes most naturally
So if I’m writing here it will probably be about feelings
And if I’m spending time with you I will probably make you uncomfortable with how much I care
And if I’m at work I will probably come home covered in glitter from the stretch velvet on display on the second floor
If I get coffee it will be with too much milk and stirred half heartedly.
If you tell me something, I’ll most likely take it literally.
I’m no good at not loving people.
Since when is that a problem?