We only worry about one another when we must. The other days I tell myself, braid its hair, get close to your hurt. Write letters to old lovers, read out loud, wish her and the baby well when you give thanks in the morning. Watch for whales, count waves, read books.
What we do with ourselves and with our time is a way to justify what we’ve done. It’s not easy to fall in love, but no one tells you that when you’re young. We always wonder what is wrong with me, what is so wrong with you. The answer is always less than what we want or need to get on with building the house.
We take long drives to make ourselves feel like we’re getting somewhere. We take on insurmountable projects and lock ourselves away for the winter. We listen to music on the stereo, we cook sweet potatoes, we cry in parking lots.
A few things there has never been enough of: coffee, time, and effort. I once said everything fails without consistent effort. What I meant was, please stop the car so I can walk home. You’re mad at me about things that I cannot even look at anymore.
All I want to do is go back to last summer and prove to myself that I would not have done a single thing differently, even if given the chance to do it again.
I have never been good. And everything hangs on by a thread. We go nowhere.
image from @jenavieve of myself somewhere in Yellowstone, on film in the summer of 2018