Time feels like a quality I hardly recognize. Some shifting sense of loyalty to what was or who I was. Like my waist line, like my thighs. They are still what they are but they are no longer hers they are mine, and who am I? I feel myself strong in places I was once weak and weak in places I have always been strong. Afraid of things I cannot name because I do not know them yet.
Someone else says, Life is strange but love is good. And I wonder at how simple a sentence can feel so true.
I used to write about a different life. I do not believe anymore that anything beside this life is mine. I think about string theory and quantum entanglment, not because I am afraid of being alone, but because I am afraid I will never be alone again.
It is easy for us to grow envious of one another. I see the dishes in her sink and the pile of books and the solitude I once cultivated. We keep it close like someone might steal it from us, and they will. And yet she sees my changing body and reminds me over dinner that it is the one thing we experience in which no other experience can compare.
Waiting for you is like being led to another country, another planet, in which I do not now the language or the laws of gravity. I know only I am going and there is no way to return.
I am made up in equal measure of apprehension and anticipation. How can I not be?
I feel as if I am repeating myself. What else can I say about this time. I became very worried recently at things I could point at, at the books I hadn’t read or the work he hadn’t done or the things we hadn’t bought. And I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, and yet they were not entirely of me. It is strange the way our bodies can take fear and masquerade them as puppets in other forms.
I say that I feel alone, but I am quite literally not alone. He is already here and there is no one beside myself who is going to save me. If I cannot get right with myself then the both of us will suffer for it.
All of this is to say that if something lacking it is likely no ones fault beside our own. If I am meant to be at peace then I have to build a home around it. No one else is going to stack the wood. Have we said this before? And are all of the same things still true? This time is going to pass us by no matter how we handle it. The blue bird is not actually blue.