I am no good at this. Rag dolled and tongue tied, line dried, and laid out. I am without harbor and without home for which to call my own. If I have learned anything this year it is that there is little to settle and a lot to be unearthed. When we let time passively pass by it is when we get uneasy and have nothing left to say.
In the mornings my shoulders are cold, left out from the blankets and near the uninsulated windows. There are planets in our bedroom.
I am finding it harder lately to see past certain ideas, to shelf them, or save them for later. Later feels like an abstraction without promise, a note I wrote in my twenties and just dug out of a drawer. Eras double up and I have nothing new to show for it. And this scares me more than anything else.
We are partially who we claim to be and the rest is cobbled together from your daily work, like prayer it adds up. Brick by brick and bird by bird. Someone once told me that in order to succeed I would have to lay waste to everything else I loved. I never believed that to be true. But what if it is. What if this is all just a lot of blood letting and before I know it nothing will be as it is, and everything will be what was.
And I will still be alone in the dark writing about you. Perhaps there is a different way to go about this, and I am open to finding out what that is.