Hark The Herald Angel Sings

Dear K,

I hope this day finds you well. I've been getting into the hippier side of thinking about things lately. Winter is powerful isn't it? Even if it's not cold, it's a time of darkness and struggle and strife. It is a time of fasting, for the soul and the mind. It is a cleansing time. We just had the winter soulstice, the darkest time of year for us in the northern hemisphere. We are passing through the shadow, and this is a time where we can easily sort through what we want to lose and what we want to keep. I'm sorting through all the parts of myself that I want to lose and what I want to keep.

I talked to B last night, and the night before. I'm in a strange place. I love her so very much. I love her desperately. Simultaneously, I know I don't want to be in a relationship with her. Or at least not in the relationship that we were in. We just want such different things. We're very different people that want so desperately to convince the other of our way of thinking, and we're not in a relationship. I saw to that. I think in the long run it will be for the best, but fuck it hurts.

I'm never happier than when I'm in pain though. I need a boulder to roll up the hill.

Lots of religions say that life is suffering.

I love suffering, it makes me feel alive.

May your suffering be sweet,

K

Merry Christmas

i try not to worry but i always worry

Dear K-

Things have been set spinning. I have been trying to concentrate on finding things that make me happy to smooth the stormy seas. The guilty pleasures that inexplicably bring me peace. Unfortunately, there is never enough time to devote to these diversions as I might wish.

I almost called in sick to work this week, even though I was not plagued by any physical ailment. The environment in the office has been terrible, and I have very little to look forward to in the morning except the moment I get to walk back out the door and head home. I started a jigsaw puzzle this past weekend. It is one of my aforementioned diversions. I have discovered that I am rarely more at ease than when I am alone, working tirelessly on a puzzle. I forget to eat. I forget to sleep. I am completely disconnected and it feels so inexplicably blissful. On Tuesday, I wanted to call in sick and just work all day on my puzzle. Of course, the voice of reason came in the form of a boyfriend who reminded me my patients depend upon me. So I begrudgingly carried off to work, put in long hours and in the momentum of the day momentarily forgot about what I had abandoned at home as I focused my attention on those who had sought me out for help. But as soon as I closed the last patient file, I remembered. It brought a sense of ease. I glided over the highways in the dark, slipped back into my home, and ate a small meal while hunched over the pieces. It was everything I could have wanted.

Another diversion I re-discovered was writing smutty detective stories. I know these tales will never be read. I know that they are trash. But it feels good to be productive. It feels good to be distracted from the present.

I have to go to the office holiday party. It isn’t going to be a good time. We had an employee who was leaving us at the end of the month to pursue a different, more lucrative job opportunity. She was leaving on good terms. I liked her. I wished her the best of luck. However, my boss made a very sloppy decision yesterday to tell her she was not allowed to come to the office holiday party because he felt betrayed about her leaving. He told her she wasn’t welcome because she made everyone feel unhappy. She rightfully felt insulted, grabbed her things and left. I never got to say goodbye. I won’t get to give her the little holiday gift I purchased for her. I am just going to sit at dinner wondering how much alcohol I can sneak into my system without anyone noticing, and how long I have to stay in order to put in a good appearance before I slink back home to my puzzle.

I understand your desire to have a goal. Resolutions can be helpful. I have been trying to improve my disposition, hence the resurgence of my diversions to help give me a sense of purpose. Something to do with my hands. I have failed with more broad, over-arching aims, so I have set myself to simple tasks. Puzzles. Writing without expectations. Sometimes the smallest things can weild a large amount of psychological effect.

We’re artists, you and I. Sometimes it is easier to construct our fantasies than to confront reality. We are so used to the ease of smudging in a shadow where we see it fitting, or changing a line of dialogue if the established doesn’t flow as we’d like. It is so frustrating to not have that leisurely freedom to alter aspects of our daily lives with such ease.

It's time I start holding myself accountable for some of those artistic flourishes.

Seasonably yours,
-K

This Dying Year

Dear K,

Your video was lovely. Thank you. I'm sorry your boss is an asshat. I'm sorry you're feeling dissatisfied with your relationship. That happens sometimes. I usually split when that happens. I usually convince everyone around me that I should split when that happens. The clock is ticking and we'll never win against it.

We imagine such intricate cages for ourselves don't we? You talk about the only escape route for you being Vietnam or Europe, these are the places you imagine happiness. I imagine the only place I'll be the right mix of happy and miserable is in the arms of a former lover. We've become very good at imagining away the world, at saying only this and only that. Perhaps there are more than two choices? Perhaps there are an infinite amount of choices. Perhaps the dichotomy of stay or leave is false? What if there are no dichotomies? No this or that. Only both, and a million other things.

Or maybe we're only happy when we're sad?

All I know is I want to be more present. I want to have a goal, and I want to work on it every day.

Yours in spirit-kinship,

Forever,

K

the flicker of sunlight through closed eyelids

Dear K-

I am sorry I was delayed in returning correspondence. This week has been a week. I’m too tired to even confront the adjectives necessary to describe it.

You’re stuck in a vicious cycle. This girl dug her nails into your heart a long, long time ago and carved in her sign. It may not be visible to others at first, but it’s there, continually drawing you back to her and making you cringe away from other possibilities. Those initials are an invisible tether that tugs your heartstrings until you find yourself talking to her again, imagining her eyes again, listening to her voice that has been entombed for your misery forever on a digital archive. But it’s a siren song, K, and you and I both know that you are drifting dangerously close to the rocky shoreline. You may not be able to hear the crash of the waves on stone because you are too mesmerized by those dulcimer chords, her gentle inhale and exhale masking the peril lurking at their source, but let me be the raven that cries a warning. Heed it if you desire. And if not, be honest with yourself of what lies ahead. It doesn’t matter what I think, in the end. All I can offer are words on a page and a sentiment of apprehension. It comes down to you realizing what you want and whether you’re willing to do what it takes to get it.

Lord knows I’m not willing to do what it takes. And that’s part of my problem.

I almost called you three days ago. I was driving home on a rainy, dark evening after a miserable day of work and I was questioning all my most recent decisions. I was a heartbeat away from applying to live in Vietnam. Sometimes I just get so startled about where I am in life; I feel like a hurt wild animal backed into a corner, desperately searching for an exit to bolt for at the first opportunity.

My job is miserable. My boss reads my mail, rummages through my desk, reads all my patient charts. He treats me like a child. The holiday with my boyfriend was lackluster. He drinks so much I feel physically repulsed by him. I slept in the guest bed for days, lying and saying I was feeling ill and didn’t want to risk infecting him. When in reality in was my heart that was sick. I still think I love him, but sometimes I can’t help but find myself wondering if there’s not something better. Something where I don’t always feel like I am compromising. Something where I don’t feel like I am always getting angry about stupid little details. But I always do. I am beginning to think the problem isn’t always the boyfriend and is more likely myself. In all the years, in all the relationships, there’s only one common denominator. And that’s me.

And so I considered up-ending everything and moving to Vietnam for a year. They need fresh optometrists to teach students at a new school they are trying to establish. I still might apply for the position. I still might do it. But I keep asking myself: how many times can I run away? Especially if I am just trying to run away from myself?

I am going to send you something to try to distract you from B. It is something you can laugh at, sing along to, delete, cry to, whatever you want so long as it gives you something to relax your mind for just a few moments. Maybe it will help your quest to be positive.

Let’s be positive. Tomorrow I get to participate in a state-wide pub trivia tournament. We were ranked in the top 40 teams for the entire state for the season and so we get a chance to win the big prize. I am looking forward to it. The trivia nights are one of the few points where I feel relaxed and happy. Maybe it is because the trivia distracts me from everything else and I am free to forget my surroundings and retreat into my mind palace.

I drank three cups of tea so far today at work and there’s nothing my boss can do about it. He may disrespect my privacy and belittle me but he can never take away my freedom to drink as much god damn tea as I want.

So, cheers.

-K

Dear K,

It's me again. I couldn't wait for you to write back. I'm listening to her. I've got this handy little device that will let me fill my head and heart with pain whenever I want. It is better than a bottle of whiskey.
It's a little like a radio, but it only plays the three songs she has posted online, and I listen to the one she wrote about me where she said she needs my kisses up and down her arms, and I am lost. I am in a labyrinth of self-torment and regrets. I went to my therapist today, and I told her more about my relationship with B. My therapist and I realized as we talked that I wouldn't say anything purely from my perspective. I wouldn't say I saw this or I felt that, but I would say my friends and family said this and thought that. Where did I lose myself? When did I lose myself? Did I ever have one? Somewhere along the way everything became so unsteady in my head. If you told me east was north long enough I'm sure I would believe you. I sometimes feel like I'm living in a nightmare. A very sinister nightmare and the horrifying twist is that it is real life, and I won't wake up in it, I'll just keep sleeping through it, and nothing that I do will ever matter. Just grease sliding down a pan, or snow melting in a parking lot. I guess we'll only find out if happiness comes to us in the end. How do I make it better? How do I make it better? How do I make myself better? I want to be Superman, but all I am is a little scared kid in a towel.

That was all negative and I'm trying to be positive. Start with gratitude. I'm thankful for myself. I'm thankful for this shell to walk around the world in. I am thankful that I like to smile, and hug, and kiss, and brush hair away from eyes, and wink, and hold hands, and give back rubs. I am thankful for the people around me, and I am thankful for the opportunity to practice compassion. Every day I can get better. Every day the slate is clean, and thank god I can practice my mandalas again. I am thankful for my friends and my family. I am thankful that I can pour my youthful angsty heart out to you. I am thankful for you my friend. I am thankful for life. I am thankful for the sun and the moon and the waves and punk rock. I am thankful for Jazz and sunsets and porch swings and the taste of my blood. I am thankful for hot ovens and mediocre showers and long long long bicycle rides. I am thankful for cigarettes and cheap wine. I am thankful for salads and Japanese noodles. I am thankful for women and their curves and smiles and softness and scents and loving hands. I am thankful for my little curve of the rainbow of time. I get to see so many marvelous things.

I feel better now.

Goodnight, all my hopes and prayers,

K.

Say You'll Remember Me After They Give You A Sponge Filled With Vinegar

Dear K,

It was so good to talk to you tonight. We really let those floodgates rip. I didn't call you because you texted me on my way home from work, I think I would have called you anyway. I called you because I knew in that moment that I needed to talk to you. Somehow over the years we have formed a bond where I just let everything fly at you.

Thank you.

When we got off the phone you were walking into a bar and so was I.

I sat down and ordered a martini. The bar was almost empty. Seven O'clock on a Wednesday. I started talking with the strangers at the bar. Well, stranger. She was the only other person there by herself, and I felt light and free, and so I pulled out all the stops and I was as charming and interesting and positive as I could be. I was too friendly.

After she asked my name I got wise.

I pushed in all the stops I'd pulled out. I met up with friends and said nice to meet you.

I spent the night talking to my friends and texting that old wound in my heart. The one that won't heal. The one that lives in Atlanta. It's still bleeding. As I was picking at it in front of my friends, I'd put down my phone and say that I needed to stop, it wasn't healthy. They laughed it off, but I kept sticking my fingers in, kept pulling at the edges looking for the signs of wear, looking for scars. By the end of the second martini I was ready to rip the whole damn thing out.

There aren't any scars. I've got a god damn stigmata on my heart.

On the walk home I realized that maybe nothing heals in there, maybe some things just pierce us deeper and truer, like spears that run us through. Maybe all we can do is let it consume us, let our hearts pump our lifeblood out in big watery spurts over the sidewalk. Maybe we should tear those wounds wide open and jump in. Maybe we should get down off of our crosses and really take a look. Maybe we should just do what we know we want to do but we're too scared to do. Maybe we should stay on our crosses and suffer for all eternity.

Or maybe we should forget the whole thing and go into the desert.

I don't know.

I'm tired and I'm going to bed.

All My Earthly Love,

K

my only swerving

Dear K-

Sometimes I wonder whether happiness was made for people like you and me. I keep thinking back to something you said the other day, when we talked on the telephone.

We should try to talk on the telephone more often. To each other, at least. I am not good on the telephone, but somehow you help me get past that. It doesn’t matter if I am crying, or laughing, or even just sitting quietly, listening to the sound of your life so many, many miles away…something about it feels relaxing. Enjoyable. I feel comfortable speaking to you in ways I don’t talk to anyone here. I don’t mind that you know I am damaged goods, that I worry about everything in such excruciating detail, or that you know I can be a terrible person. Sometimes it feels good to talk to someone who knows your faults. The faults that don’t always readily show.

Anyways, I keep thinking about what you said the other day, while you browsed for groceries and I folded my laundry. You said that perhaps happiness isn’t something we should strive for. Perhaps happiness isn’t the culmination of a successful life. For some reason I have always thought of happiness as something like the end reward, the proof that you’ve done everything well in life, worked really hard and put in your dues, and in return some unknown force of the universe provides you with happiness and contentment. Maybe you strived away at a miserable job for years and hated every moment but you put in good, honest work and tried to always be nice to your co-workers…then one day, out of the blue, you are given the opportunity to step into your dream job. The job where you look forward to working every day. The job where you feel fulfilled and productive. Or maybe you have been very attentive to always treating others how you would like to be treated, never turning away from someone in need, even when it might have put you out…And then viola! One day, you meet that perfect someone and you get married without a single god-damn doubt in your mind, and you live a beautiful and satisfying life until you both die, after which your children tell your grandchildren about how you and pop-pop were so in love, and how you died within 20 minutes of each other because you couldn’t bear the thought of living on without the other.

But I’m realizing that is not how life works. Especially if I’m behind the wheel. Even if I am in the perfect situation, I seem to find a way to steer everything off the bridge and into the river. Is it because I am a person that isn’t meant to feel happy? Maybe I don’t know what to do with happy. I’m trying to stop thinking about trying to become happy. Maybe, just as you aren’t ready for romance, maybe I’m not ready for happiness. As much as I want it, maybe I can’t have it right now. Maybe I will never have it. As you said, this whole show ends at some point, so perhaps I shouldn’t waste so much of it lamenting over what isn’t meant to be.

The other day I was thinking back to when we used to meet to play chess in a coffee shop that probably has long since closed its doors. I was reminiscing upon it so fondly, wondering why my life couldn’t still contain such simple pleasures. But then I thought about it a little longer, and remembered that those games also used to cause me great stress and frustration. I was so competitive that I wasn’t easily able to relax and appreciate the game for what it was supposed to be: a mechanism to bring us together to chat and share some coffee. Instead, I became so concentrated upon the embarrassment of losing that I shied away from those meetings.

I wish I could slap my younger self, tell her to straighten up and look beyond the game. I would kill to be able to wander to the local coffee shop every week and kill a few hours moving pieces clumsily over a board while talking about life, writing, relationships… Instead I sit in my office, staring at a wall covered with little snapshots of my past life, sipping at some lukewarm, instant coffee blend. Why do I keep these pictures here? To remind me what I’ve lost? To remind me what a beautiful thing it is to be alive?

I listened to the radio this morning. They were describing a man as “the most humble, caring man you’d ever meet”. “He’d never talk about himself”, they remarked. Such a selfless, compassionate character with wit as sharp as a knife’s edge. It got me to pondering. Maybe I think too much about myself. I always twist everything into my perspective. Perhaps I need to become a shadow. Listening attentively but physically incapable of being in the spotlight. Perhaps then I wouldn’t take everything so personally and the world wouldn’t hurt so much. But then I wonder what the point of living would be if I wasn’t meant to feel at all. I’m going about it all in the wrong way.

I can’t be kinder to myself. I’m still too dissatisfied with the product. We both seem to have difficulty finding the good parts in ourselves.

Remember the good times for what they were, but know that they can never occur again in their original skin. You will never again hold her in your arms the same way and breathe in her scent, I will never sway back and forth in the trams of Brno with my head resting on the shoulder of a gentle Slovenian, and we will never return to drink on a couch-covered porch at twilight on a lonely street in Kirksville. We are both longing for feelings that can’t return. But maybe we can find something similar to fill the void, at least for the time being.

Our lives are a poem. There’s so much meaning lurking between what's visible on the page.
-K

Smiling As The Rocks And Oceans Cover Us.

Dear K,

This is all going to be terribly disconnected.
Treat it like a poem.
I wish somebody had said that to me when I was little.
That would be a good way to live your life.
Like a poem.
I guess.

I know I'll be happy someday. I know I'm not right now. I broke up with her. I ended my longest relationship. There were very real reasons, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. I'm lying in bed. I've been staring up at my ceiling fan feeling so sorry for myself for the last two hours.

I created an OKCupid account and deleted it before it was completely set up. I did the same with Tinder. I know now that those things don't work for me.

I want a romance. I want to be ready for a romance.

I'm not ready.

It's going to take me some time to get ready.

I want to make sure that I love myself before I love somebody else.

Look, this whole thing is going to end. Your life. My life. The world's ability to support life. Everything is going to end. We're going to do. That is not up for debate. There is no negotiating around that. Everything ends.

I told her as quick as I could that I thought we should break up. She was expecting it because I had talked to my sisters that day. She was worried about me talking to my sisters. She was worried that they would convince me to break up with her. They didn't convince me, my mind was already made up. It was my gut that did it.

Everything ends, but still moments are suspended. I imagine the past as frozen echoes that are still there. You and I are still drinking on a porch in Kirksville, Missouri somewhere back there.
Somewhere back there I'm still stroking her hair and breathing in the smell. I'm still holding her hand as we walk. I'm still grabbing at her belt loops and pulling her in to kiss me. I'm still telling myself that her middle name is Forever.

That's how it was in my phone.

I looked through pictures I took from our relationship tonight.

That was a mistake.

All of the good times have flooded back into me.

My pillow is soaking up what makes it down my cheek.

God I miss her. I just want to talk to her. I just want to go back, not forever, but just for the night.

Then I think to myself how lucky I am to feel all of these things and the pain lessens. Pain can be turned to joy, it happens, sometimes.

I called an old friend from college tonight. One I used to put on a pillar and call it love. We talked for an hour and a half until I threw up. I think it was a combination of bad tea, cigarettes, and old unrequited feelings that I should have dealt with a long time ago. Somethings never get back in their box.

I need to be kinder to myself.

You need to be kinder to yourself.

You've always been nice to me, turn some of that back on yourself.

You know why I titled this "Smiling As The Rocks Cover Us" ?

Because someday the mountains will crumble. Someday you'll be buried in the dirt. Someday I'll be buried in the dirt. Our lips will melt away, eaten and consumed.

We'll Be Smiling As The Rocks And Oceans Cover Us,
Because It Was So Good To Have Lived,
K

penniless patron

K-

So much has happened to you. As much as I know it is terrible to say it, I am actually glad to hear you’ve broken a few hearts. I don’t necessarily think it is a good thing to hurt people, but I think that it is also inevitable in the dating world these days to let someone down. It also shows you how it feels to be on the other end of that relationship. You know my story, you know I’ve ripped out the hearts of boys at times without even batting my lashes. But now when I look back on those moments I cringe. I wouldn’t play it out differently, but it makes me realize that I am not a nice person. Sometimes we get backed into corners and like a frightened animal we lash out, just looking for an escape. We don’t know what we want, but we know it isn’t this.

But so now you’ve found a new love, eh? It sounds like you have similar spirits. If she makes you happy, then I am happy. Just make sure she’s happy. Never take her for granted. Always respect her. Amen.

I’ve been reading lately about people who quit their steady, respectable jobs in order to travel around the world. They were admitting how social media glorified their decision and hid some of the travails of their “freedom”. If you looked at their Instagrams or Facebooks or what have you, every week would be a different photograph. Something beautiful. Something that make you suck in your breath and wish. They were doing yoga on a beach at sunset. They were standing in bright yellow rain slickers on a blackened rock on the rugged coast of Ireland. They were wandering down a narrow cobblestone street between brightly painted buildings exploring crowded market stalls. Everything seemed so lovely and carefree, it made the viewer wonder why he was content to sit in his office all day tapping on a keyboard when there was such a world waiting to be explored. But the travelers admitted that their carefree lifestyle wasn’t as easy and beautiful as all the pictures made it seem. They scrounged for cash, doing odd jobs like scrubbing toilets, spreading manure, sorting cans. Sometimes they could only afford to buy floss and no other toiletries. They admitted that several times they broke down in frustrated tears, worried about where they would sleep tomorrow and whether they’d be able to eat. But at the end of it all, they were free. They said they wouldn’t have it any other way. So, I guess, in a way, I can understand your sentiments.

Some days I don’t want to go to work at all. I arrive in my office and I want to just go immediately back home. I glance at the schedule and wonder which patient today will make me feel like a sham. I miss the days when I could sit in coffee shops and read all day, without worrying about the work I was putting off or how I should be more productive with my time. My biggest frustration of those days was simply finding the quietest spot in the café and hoping no one would disturb me and that the espresso machine wouldn’t stop working half-way through the day.

Let me know where your travels take you. I am slightly jealous, in a way. I think if I didn’t have this looming, terrifying burden of student debt hanging over me I would leave my job. Or at least work less days a week. Maybe find something more fun to do on the other days. Something that I could do without worrying how much I got paid. Something I could just do because it was a fun distraction.

Maybe I should start writing a book again, too. Who knows.

All the best to you and your new adventures.

-K

I Threw Out My Map And Compass

Dear K,

I'm going to skip the part where I apologize. We've apologized enough to each other over the years, its more of a formality now than anything. The important part is that we pick up again, and I don't think we should apologize when we start writing to each other.

It's been a long weird couple of years.

I got my heart ripped out of me. I put it back in myself. I went to the hospital in an ambulance when I fell down some stairs trying to impress a girl. I got staples in my scalp, but nothing was broken. My body hurt for months.

I was homeless in Chicago. I had a warm place to sleep every night, but it was a different place every night. I would carry my suitcase with me all day until a different friend got off work. I was a permanent traveler in winter. It was a dark and uncertain time. I rode Amtrak a lot. I rode Megabus a lot. I ran out of money.

Then I moved back home. I moved in with my parents. I lived in my Mother's basement, and I walked everywhere and rode my bike. I got a job working for RAGBRAI. Then I got a job running an improv theater.

It was the best of times. I had a long sweet summer.

I met a girl. I told her I loved her, and then I broke her heart.

She moved to Des Moines for me. I broke up with her a month later. Three months into our relationship.

Three months later we were friends. Then we got into a fight and I haven't talked to her since. I've been cold. I grew scales on my heart.

I started dating another girl.

I broke her heart too.

We broke up in February, just before Valentines Day. I became heartless.

The whole time I was working six days a week, sometimes seven. I was working seventy hours a week, and I was barely holding my self together.

I got yelled at almost every day. I worked for a married couple that owned the theater. They would get into fights and communicate through me. I would smile and nod and try to make the best of things. I made things work. I plugged holes. I stretched myself too thin.

I lost myself in the grind. I evaporated day by day.

Somewhere along the way I met somebody. I'm pretty sure we're going to get married. Most days I ask her if she wants to marry me. She came after me. She pulled me out of my cold heartlessness. She asked me what needed to happen to make me dance. Nobody has ever asked me what it takes to make me dance.

We're planning to move. I want to see the world. I want to live in other places.

I have no clue where I'm going.

I quit my dream job in June. It was killing me. I didn't sleep most nights. I just laid awake staring at the ceiling cringing about what I had missed that day, and what I would miss the next day. Who did I not call? What did I not do? Everything I did seemed like it would make or break the theater. It seemed like everything depended on me. Everything did depend on me. I was the buffer. I was the whipping post. I was a piece of inanimate would. I was a punching bag. I was the janitor. I was the front of house manager. I was the one who asked drunk people to leave. I took the money. I counted the money. I dreamt up all of the reasons it wasn't our fault nobody came to the shows. I emailed everyone we knew every week begging them to come to shows.

Then I started slipping. I would miss crucial tasks. I was paralyzed by fear. I was afraid to work on anything because it might not be the right thing to work on. I was tired of doing everything, and I needed a break, but there is no break. I had chained myself to a rock, and the tide started to rise. Summer came and the audiences stopped coming. I started slipping.

At the end I had been underwater for a month, and I was pretty sure that I would never breath again.

Then my commitment was questioned. It had worked before as a motivational technique. A psychic whip crack to move the mule. Only this time it made me look around. Was I committed? I had given everything I had to the theater. I had given my entire existence. I lost sleep every night over it. I had poured myself out.

I reacted with pain and rage, and a day later I said I wanted to step down. I offered to stay on until a replacement could be trained, and a transition plan could be made.

I was done a week later. I came in on a Tuesday morning and found out that Friday would be my last day.

I've spent the last couple of months pulling myself together.

I have no idea where I'm going. I don't have a job. I've eaten all of my savings.

And I've never been more free.

Freedom tastes differently than I thought it would. I thought freedom would taste like a beach or a summer's day. I thought freedom would feel like sunshine on my skin. Freedom is hungrier than that. Freedom takes more than that. Freedom does not mean easy living. Freedom is hard. Freedom makes you question yourself more than chaining yourself ever did.

I feel free when I ride my bicycle without a plan. Every summer I ride with twenty-thousand other people across Iowa. That week is heaven. I wake up without knowing where I'm going, and then I ride with my friends until we feel like stopping, or I feel like stopping, or until we get to the place where we are going to sleep. I never know the route. I never know where we will turn, or what hills will be in the way, or whether the wind will make me struggle, or if the rain will pour down on us. My existence becomes simply pedaling and looking around, and then more pedaling. Nothing is better.

I have no idea where I'm going right now. I don't know if I'll make it to the next town. I don't know anything. I've thrown out my compass, and I'm trying to throw out my expectations.

I'm going to work on a book now.

Wish me luck. Wish me aimlessness. Wish me twists and turns. Wish me a long summer's night under the stars in good company. I wish all of these things for you.

-K

the ghosts i've met

Dear K-

Look at us. At some point, we lifted our anchors and each began to drift, and now the waves have taken us out of eye sight. We lost connection.
The last time we spoke, our mutual acquaintance had killed himself. Sorrowful times for a reconnection. I didn't know what to say to you. So I just stared out the car window and wondered what street I should take to get to the nearest bar while your voice hummed on the other end of the phone line. I felt ashamed.
But now we both have returned to our customary courses, waving at each other silently from afar. I'm a doctor now. Feels strange to say it. Introducing myself is still a strain. It doesn't sound right, far too much youth, far too much doubt in my tone when it struggles past my lips. I am hoping that eventually it becomes easier and I become more confident in my role. I wonder if all doctors feel this way at first. I wonder if it ever feels better.
Tell me about your life now. It has been too long. I've come to find that nostalgia is the closest thing to regret that I can stomach. I'd like to shake the dust off our letters. I'd like to remember what it was like.

Out to Sea,
-K