yesterday I left my computer at work by accident, and I feel as a result quite peaceful and free at home, here with my journal. it’s all too easy to fill life up with noise and activity– and what suffers is the inner voice, the channel of knowing the self and what’s real. but life is like that– inconsistent and chaotic– some times are lived more actively out in the world, busier, flashing, louder. I’ve had my share of quiet– and it’s something I need to hearken back to when I’m feeling too scattered and diffuse.
N is the biggest event, cause of much of this motion. three weeks. he’s glorious and troubling and addictive, like dark candy– and he has this lightness as well, this sweetness that just gleams out of him so spontaneously and unselfconsciously and generously– I love how dynamic he is– I love it– and he scares me a bit– his manic potential– he is so altogether unharnessed by himself– it’s one of the things I adore about him– particularly after having known other men– males– who were altogether too controlled or comfortable. he is not comfortable.
I am the one in this equation who is all fluff and flannel and horizontal– and I could tear myself up about the fears that this contrast makes arise– lack of sustainability, that this is inherently a brilliant, short-term connection– I don’t feel like that. I feel with him a much deeper recognition– a potential– but there is a cautionary voice that reminds me of how things naturally flow and move where they need to move.
I’m afraid I’m tempermentally a premature mourner, trying, kind of pitifully, to bank myself against future or imagined losses. as if it helped at all. in fact there’s the possibility it damages being entirely available and present in the moment.
there is such a compulsion to hold on in me– it’s quite dire and daunting, and I guess I’m trying to reason with that somewhat. it hasn’t really done me a lot of favors in the past– tendency to hang onto the wrong things, rather. I let a lot pass right out of my ken– friends, places, family, responsibilities– but there’s this deathgrip on the painfully ruptured relationships.
worrying and worrying them– like a sore place on my tongue I press against the edges of my teeth time and time again. and why? until eventually the thrill of pain is gone, sapped by time. why persist with this? mere masochism? somehow that seems too… simplistic, and unmeaningful. I must do it for some reason. is it simply to feel something, anything, intensely? that sounds more right– weighing all the emotional contents of my pockets, sifting them for what is heaviest, sharpest, most startling– and then spending my energy on that. interesting.
actually, I can’t quite see anything I disagree with in this practice– it’s honest and real and poetic.