Dear K-
I think there is something healthy in eventually letting go. After an appropriate period of mourning, we bury our dead. We can't keep those things around, because they just rot and decay and turn into something so distorted and far from what we remember them as, what they truly were, that it only sullies what once was, what we loved. The same applies to memories and past lovers. We can't keep such things hanging around for too long. Maybe, a few years later, once the grass and weeds have grown over the grave soil that formed a scar on the earth, we can dig up the bones and examine them like a scientist. Cold, distant, like an archeologist pondering over the history of an unearthed relic. But for now, you need to bury the dead. You've been holding onto that corpse for a bit too long and the air was starting to smell foul and sour.
If only life were as neat and beautiful as you write it. I am going to keep hoping for that remarkable character you describe, but who deep down I know can't exist. But maybe that's what holds me back. My cynicism is my downfall. But fuck it, I'm tired of putting so much value in the result of a wild goose chase.
I dropped everything and went north to the nation's border. I had to get out of the city. I've spent the last few days doing little except for sitting outside, drinking black coffee, and reading. This is what I am, more than anything. My bones feel so at ease here, with no expectation and no demands. But a voice deep down in the well of my heart whispers that it is only temporary. Even if I were to cut all ties and stay up here to live this lifestyle, it would lose its allure and grow dull. I would become restless, just as I always do. But for now it is beautiful. It is beautiful. You are beautiful. I am beautiful. And we don't need any fucking mirrors to know that. Mirrors are so cliche these days. I don't know about you, but I've broken all mine. I spun them like plates on my finger tips and then I shattered them on the rocks of the river bed.
Some days it might be better to be the third horse. Just enough resistance to keep the rider alert that at any moment I might change my mind, that I am only now giving in because perhaps it just so happens to suit my whims. But I know for now I am the fourth horse, bruised and bloody but still refusing the path presented. Stubborn until the end, blind to whether it may be advantageous to obey this time. True to myself, but also perhaps selfish beyond forgiveness.
If you have the gift of prophesy, I must be blessed with the gift of introspection. I can dissect myself apart better than the most gifted surgeon. It's the only time my hands can stop from shaking. I leave a little tally mark on one of my ribs every time I perform the procedure. It is so covered in the little grooves that I might need to start in the next rib soon. I should really never been worried about what other people might say or do to me, because I know it will never do as much damage or cause as much hurt as what I myself am capable of.
And as for your tattoo...pics or it didn't happen.
Off for more coffee,
-k
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Le Fou et l'Ocean de doulear
Dear K,
I have a new resolve.
I'm going to do this. I'm going to move on. I'm steeling myself now. I'm going to make the choice to neither speak nor write of her. I've indulged too much in the bitter drink of sorrow. In my life I have come to enjoy the taste. It is odd how one can acquire a taste for heartache, like black bitter coffee. I drink in heartache like wine. I drink it in a garden staring up at the moon thinking of what was and what may be.
Did you know that it does not matter either way? That what was will happen again, and that what will be has already happened, and will happen again and all of it is all true. Everything is in the cycle. Everything is bound to the wheel. Even our universe will die, and then live and then die and then live, and we within it will live and die an unknowable number of times, and all of this does not matter because the only truth is the present. Did you know this? I'm sure you did. You're very clever.
I've decided on my first tattoo. I'm going to get a tarot card tattooed on me. The Fool. Because I am a fool, more than anything else. I am a fool, and there is a kind of wisdom in being a fool. It is a good thing to be a fool, it is fertile soil to grow in. I believe that I am on a journey. I am in progress, and that I will trip and stumble and make God laugh until the very end, when I'll probably go out with a big fart. I'll wear ashes in my hair and rags to the brightest dinners and a tuxedo to sleep in the alley. I'll throw away gems for apple cores and hold them up to the sun saying look how they shine and shine as they rot in my hands. I am a fool.
Bhudda says there are four types of horses. There is the horse that as soon as you jump in the saddle begins galloping off to where you want to go. The second horse needs only for you to grasp the reins lightly and gently. The third horse needs a gentle kick and a tug of the reins and will obey your commands. The fourth horse will struggle and kick and will need to be beaten with a lash until it's flanks are bloody and bone is showing in the wounds before it will move. I am like the fourth horse. We are all like the fourth horse. It is good to be the fourth horse. There is purpose in it.
Meher Baba was a Persian-Indian mystic popular in Hollywood in the 1930's. He took a vow of silence and spoke with an alphabet board and hand signs. He invited High Society women to come to his ashram and they did by the bus load, to scandal and scorn back home. Later in the 50's and 60's he demanded that twenty of his followers join him on a never ending pilgrimage. They must fill their hearts with hopeless helplessness, and be cheerful about it. No matter what difficulty they encountered they were to be cheerful in resolving it. They were to overcome sickness and death and hunger and thirst and pain and fever and flies and rainstorms and sharp rocks and broken bones with song and laughter.
I am convinced this is the way of things.
For now.
That is the advantage of being a fool, you can always realize that you are being fooled. It is much better than being wise or smart.
Le Fou,
K
I have a new resolve.
I'm going to do this. I'm going to move on. I'm steeling myself now. I'm going to make the choice to neither speak nor write of her. I've indulged too much in the bitter drink of sorrow. In my life I have come to enjoy the taste. It is odd how one can acquire a taste for heartache, like black bitter coffee. I drink in heartache like wine. I drink it in a garden staring up at the moon thinking of what was and what may be.
Did you know that it does not matter either way? That what was will happen again, and that what will be has already happened, and will happen again and all of it is all true. Everything is in the cycle. Everything is bound to the wheel. Even our universe will die, and then live and then die and then live, and we within it will live and die an unknowable number of times, and all of this does not matter because the only truth is the present. Did you know this? I'm sure you did. You're very clever.
I've decided on my first tattoo. I'm going to get a tarot card tattooed on me. The Fool. Because I am a fool, more than anything else. I am a fool, and there is a kind of wisdom in being a fool. It is a good thing to be a fool, it is fertile soil to grow in. I believe that I am on a journey. I am in progress, and that I will trip and stumble and make God laugh until the very end, when I'll probably go out with a big fart. I'll wear ashes in my hair and rags to the brightest dinners and a tuxedo to sleep in the alley. I'll throw away gems for apple cores and hold them up to the sun saying look how they shine and shine as they rot in my hands. I am a fool.
Bhudda says there are four types of horses. There is the horse that as soon as you jump in the saddle begins galloping off to where you want to go. The second horse needs only for you to grasp the reins lightly and gently. The third horse needs a gentle kick and a tug of the reins and will obey your commands. The fourth horse will struggle and kick and will need to be beaten with a lash until it's flanks are bloody and bone is showing in the wounds before it will move. I am like the fourth horse. We are all like the fourth horse. It is good to be the fourth horse. There is purpose in it.
Meher Baba was a Persian-Indian mystic popular in Hollywood in the 1930's. He took a vow of silence and spoke with an alphabet board and hand signs. He invited High Society women to come to his ashram and they did by the bus load, to scandal and scorn back home. Later in the 50's and 60's he demanded that twenty of his followers join him on a never ending pilgrimage. They must fill their hearts with hopeless helplessness, and be cheerful about it. No matter what difficulty they encountered they were to be cheerful in resolving it. They were to overcome sickness and death and hunger and thirst and pain and fever and flies and rainstorms and sharp rocks and broken bones with song and laughter.
I am convinced this is the way of things.
For now.
That is the advantage of being a fool, you can always realize that you are being fooled. It is much better than being wise or smart.
Le Fou,
K
Saturday, July 16, 2016
A Lantern Must Be Alternatively Covered and Unvovered In Order To Say Anything Across Time And Space
Dear K,
I don't think you need to change anything about yourself except how much you like yourself. I've been telling you for years that you're too harsh on yourself by not just half but whole. You say you're a monster, you berate yourself for the things you've done that anybody would do. Dear K, if you are a monster then we are all Draculas and Wolfmen and Frankensteins. You're one of the good ones, one of the dear hearts, one of the true believers. You hold a lantern in the darkness. You hold love in your heart and water it secretly and outside of this you've built a shell of pessimism, but I am not so blind as that. I can see right through this flimsy little shell that you've built. I see through to your heart I see the love that you are so desperate to give away. I see the fires you keep banked. I see their warmth. I know that you are just waiting for the signal, waiting for the horn to sound, and that secret fire of yours will rage through your whole body. You'll burn in it. I know this, because I can see my own kind, the kind that loves love. The kind that throws themselves on the train tracks of fate. The kind that will say they love somebody two months in, and mean it, or if they don't say it they will think it and mean it. We are the dear hearts. We are the lighters of lamps. We are the audience and the author. We are the ones who spin this world of broken dreams around our impossible schemes to scale the heights of loves lofty cliffs and so often fall to the rocks below and then we see a distant glimmer of hope and start the climb over and over again. Oh dear heart I have faith in you. I have placed all my worldly faith in you. I believe you will be happier than you ever thought possible and still happier than I could ever dream for you. I believe that you will meet someone who likes coffee just as black as you. Someone who pushes puzzles pieces together just the way you do. But this tall and dark and handsome man, with a chin to write home about and coal black eyes that make you think of railroad tunnels and Raven black hair, this man will make you think of chess in the night and love in the morning and he will come to you and how to you and make you his and he yours and love will rain down upon you like an August thunderstorm. There will be a trumpet sounding in the hills, and dogs barking in the street and the clock towers will sing out your new love. I know this to be true, for one of the gifts that God gives the dear hearted is prophecy. Our prophecies come truer than most and hardly ever at all but, it's a lot like tilting your head and squinting an eye or better still one of those pictures where you have to let your eyes unfocus and then you see the sailboat, it is how you look at it. I believe in you and your future, and there is sunshine ahead for you, but first storm clouds and strong winds, because your boat needs to be blown in the right direction, because God and Nature abhor straight lines.
As for me. I will love again. I know I will. I still dream about her though. This week I've been out in the wilderness that she fled to. I've been with my family, and I've thought about her. I have my regrets and my bitterness, but now I am more me than I was then. I have regained myself. I don't think she had taken my sense of self, or if I threw it away, but I had lost it and now I've got myself back and that I think is a choice I would make a thousand times and one. But still, the barbs are there and they are deep.
Oh well. We must all cry and suffer and scream and then we will be washed in the light of love and made clean, in this life or the next or the one after and if we're lucky we can catch glimpses of how big the world is and how small we are and that makes our pain less.
I love you, I bless you, I hope all things for you,
Dear heart,
K
I don't think you need to change anything about yourself except how much you like yourself. I've been telling you for years that you're too harsh on yourself by not just half but whole. You say you're a monster, you berate yourself for the things you've done that anybody would do. Dear K, if you are a monster then we are all Draculas and Wolfmen and Frankensteins. You're one of the good ones, one of the dear hearts, one of the true believers. You hold a lantern in the darkness. You hold love in your heart and water it secretly and outside of this you've built a shell of pessimism, but I am not so blind as that. I can see right through this flimsy little shell that you've built. I see through to your heart I see the love that you are so desperate to give away. I see the fires you keep banked. I see their warmth. I know that you are just waiting for the signal, waiting for the horn to sound, and that secret fire of yours will rage through your whole body. You'll burn in it. I know this, because I can see my own kind, the kind that loves love. The kind that throws themselves on the train tracks of fate. The kind that will say they love somebody two months in, and mean it, or if they don't say it they will think it and mean it. We are the dear hearts. We are the lighters of lamps. We are the audience and the author. We are the ones who spin this world of broken dreams around our impossible schemes to scale the heights of loves lofty cliffs and so often fall to the rocks below and then we see a distant glimmer of hope and start the climb over and over again. Oh dear heart I have faith in you. I have placed all my worldly faith in you. I believe you will be happier than you ever thought possible and still happier than I could ever dream for you. I believe that you will meet someone who likes coffee just as black as you. Someone who pushes puzzles pieces together just the way you do. But this tall and dark and handsome man, with a chin to write home about and coal black eyes that make you think of railroad tunnels and Raven black hair, this man will make you think of chess in the night and love in the morning and he will come to you and how to you and make you his and he yours and love will rain down upon you like an August thunderstorm. There will be a trumpet sounding in the hills, and dogs barking in the street and the clock towers will sing out your new love. I know this to be true, for one of the gifts that God gives the dear hearted is prophecy. Our prophecies come truer than most and hardly ever at all but, it's a lot like tilting your head and squinting an eye or better still one of those pictures where you have to let your eyes unfocus and then you see the sailboat, it is how you look at it. I believe in you and your future, and there is sunshine ahead for you, but first storm clouds and strong winds, because your boat needs to be blown in the right direction, because God and Nature abhor straight lines.
As for me. I will love again. I know I will. I still dream about her though. This week I've been out in the wilderness that she fled to. I've been with my family, and I've thought about her. I have my regrets and my bitterness, but now I am more me than I was then. I have regained myself. I don't think she had taken my sense of self, or if I threw it away, but I had lost it and now I've got myself back and that I think is a choice I would make a thousand times and one. But still, the barbs are there and they are deep.
Oh well. We must all cry and suffer and scream and then we will be washed in the light of love and made clean, in this life or the next or the one after and if we're lucky we can catch glimpses of how big the world is and how small we are and that makes our pain less.
I love you, I bless you, I hope all things for you,
Dear heart,
K
Friday, July 8, 2016
a nice heart and a white suit
Dear k-
I am tired. I am restless. I have decided I need to make changes in my life. Things have become too stagnant. The person I currently am could be consciously improved. I drink too much. My workouts have become too routine and have lost their edge. My social life consists of the same four friends doing the same things every week without much variation. I am floundering hopelessly when it comes to dating. It’s time to decide to fish or cut bait, and I am cutting bait and swimming for shore.
It’s time I take control and make myself the person I want to be, rather than relying so consistently on the approval and acceptance of others in order to dictate my happiness. I went on three really good dates with a guy and now it’s like pulling teeth trying to set up a fourth date with him. He dodges and weaves through my suggested meet-ups like a prize boxer avoiding punches. I’ve spent a few days feeling low, but now I think that he’s the fool. If he’s trying to strategize to play hard to get, it’s backfiring. Why waste my time pursuing someone who is not so infatuated with me after three dates that he’s not willing to make time for me? I want someone who looks at me from across the room and thinks “that’s a woman who deserves a man who is willing to fight for her” and he is apt for the task. I want a man who actively looks forward to spending time with me. I don’t like feeling like something that needs to be penciled in a schedule, squished between other commitments and made to feel like I should be the one thankful he’s even giving me a few hours of his busy time.
Of course, I suppose I have possibly treated suitors in similar fashions at times. So maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised when the tables are turned on me. But then again, that’s another thing I need to improve. Another thing to add to the list of changes to enact.
Drink at least 8 glasses of water each day.
Start the day with hot lemon water. Optional: add mint.
Eat better. At least a salad a day. Be conscious of portions and late night snacking.
Sign up for a new workout class; try something outside my comfort zone.
Do something creative at least twice a week.
Limit alcoholic beverages to less than 10 per week. Preferably less than 5, so as to fit with most advice given by medical practitioners of the day.
Stop calculating self-worth based on the love of others.
Make attempts to elicit what truly makes me happy.
ADDITION: Be attentive to how you impact the feelings of potential suitors, both those you are interested in and those you don’t intend to pursue.
Here’s to hoping for something better to come.
Swimming,
-k
I am tired. I am restless. I have decided I need to make changes in my life. Things have become too stagnant. The person I currently am could be consciously improved. I drink too much. My workouts have become too routine and have lost their edge. My social life consists of the same four friends doing the same things every week without much variation. I am floundering hopelessly when it comes to dating. It’s time to decide to fish or cut bait, and I am cutting bait and swimming for shore.
It’s time I take control and make myself the person I want to be, rather than relying so consistently on the approval and acceptance of others in order to dictate my happiness. I went on three really good dates with a guy and now it’s like pulling teeth trying to set up a fourth date with him. He dodges and weaves through my suggested meet-ups like a prize boxer avoiding punches. I’ve spent a few days feeling low, but now I think that he’s the fool. If he’s trying to strategize to play hard to get, it’s backfiring. Why waste my time pursuing someone who is not so infatuated with me after three dates that he’s not willing to make time for me? I want someone who looks at me from across the room and thinks “that’s a woman who deserves a man who is willing to fight for her” and he is apt for the task. I want a man who actively looks forward to spending time with me. I don’t like feeling like something that needs to be penciled in a schedule, squished between other commitments and made to feel like I should be the one thankful he’s even giving me a few hours of his busy time.
Of course, I suppose I have possibly treated suitors in similar fashions at times. So maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised when the tables are turned on me. But then again, that’s another thing I need to improve. Another thing to add to the list of changes to enact.
Drink at least 8 glasses of water each day.
Start the day with hot lemon water. Optional: add mint.
Eat better. At least a salad a day. Be conscious of portions and late night snacking.
Sign up for a new workout class; try something outside my comfort zone.
Do something creative at least twice a week.
Limit alcoholic beverages to less than 10 per week. Preferably less than 5, so as to fit with most advice given by medical practitioners of the day.
Stop calculating self-worth based on the love of others.
Make attempts to elicit what truly makes me happy.
ADDITION: Be attentive to how you impact the feelings of potential suitors, both those you are interested in and those you don’t intend to pursue.
Here’s to hoping for something better to come.
Swimming,
-k
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
its easy to hate yourself if all your love is inside someone else
Dear K-
We all have ghosts. Memory will soften their edges and airbrush away the flaws, and it will be tempting to accept these sea glass versions, but you must strive to recall the original. You threw the bottle away for a reason: it was trash. You couldn’t use it anymore. It wasn’t going to help you. It was just clutter. It doesn’t matter how much our mind’s eye will transform the painful shards of glass into beautiful opaque pebbles. We can never have those pebbles in reality. The reality is so, so much harsher. You will reach for her shape and she will cut you, just like she did before. Some scars don’t show as well as others.
I know you want to find her. I know your heart feels drawn to her like a ship looking for a port. Don’t be fooled by the siren’s song. You must carry onward, searching for a safer shore. I cannot guarantee you safe passage. Keep looking up at the stars; they are shining for you now. Remind yourself that in the end, this will be the better story to write yourself. You are powerful. You deserve to be loved by someone who can give you their whole heart with no expectation of receiving yours in return. You should exchange willingly. By choice. If someone reaches in and takes your heart and gives you nothing to fill its place except a shadow of a breath, then you will never be happy.
She can never make you happy. You cannot live or love with a ghost heart. I know you are hurt. I know you have cuts running deep through your bones. But I also know you have the bud of a heart still caged within your breast. It just needs to be nurtured, encouraged, cared for, and after a bit of time it will grow back into the full, caring heart that I know you can possess. It is going to be painful. It’s hard to grow an organ back after it’s been ripped away from you completely. There are many sinews to be formed and severed tissues to be mended. But once it blooms back into its full glory, you will no longer dream of ghosts.
I have started going out on dates again. I am timid and skeptical of everyone. I have been so abused and broken that I feel I cannot trust anyone I meet. Even now, with my best prospect, I have to hold my joy in check. I find myself looking for the catch, looking for the inevitable fault. I start thinking to myself thoughts about potential other girlfriends, or perhaps a hidden wife, or perhaps he’s secretly got an addiction. Maybe he’s only leading me along for some sick joke. Maybe it’s just a game he plays in which he captures a girl’s heart then tramples all over it, tearing apart her ventricles, and laughs about it later with his mates. Maybe I’m misinterpreting all his motions, and he’s indifferent to my presence but too bored to spend the day at home alone.
Even still, the prospect of anything new gives me a slightly lighter step. My breaths are shallow with anxiety but the air tastes sweet. There is something out there, K. Don’t give up hope. There’s something waiting for us, yet. Perhaps it is over a week of insomnia and shattered nerves speaking, but I think there’s something better for us. There has to be. Because I can’t live with just this.
The air is painfully sweet. It burns my lungs but I don’t know if I could have it any other way. It is about time something lit a fire inside me.
Don’t give up. I couldn’t stand to suffer through this world without my complement.
-k
We all have ghosts. Memory will soften their edges and airbrush away the flaws, and it will be tempting to accept these sea glass versions, but you must strive to recall the original. You threw the bottle away for a reason: it was trash. You couldn’t use it anymore. It wasn’t going to help you. It was just clutter. It doesn’t matter how much our mind’s eye will transform the painful shards of glass into beautiful opaque pebbles. We can never have those pebbles in reality. The reality is so, so much harsher. You will reach for her shape and she will cut you, just like she did before. Some scars don’t show as well as others.
I know you want to find her. I know your heart feels drawn to her like a ship looking for a port. Don’t be fooled by the siren’s song. You must carry onward, searching for a safer shore. I cannot guarantee you safe passage. Keep looking up at the stars; they are shining for you now. Remind yourself that in the end, this will be the better story to write yourself. You are powerful. You deserve to be loved by someone who can give you their whole heart with no expectation of receiving yours in return. You should exchange willingly. By choice. If someone reaches in and takes your heart and gives you nothing to fill its place except a shadow of a breath, then you will never be happy.
She can never make you happy. You cannot live or love with a ghost heart. I know you are hurt. I know you have cuts running deep through your bones. But I also know you have the bud of a heart still caged within your breast. It just needs to be nurtured, encouraged, cared for, and after a bit of time it will grow back into the full, caring heart that I know you can possess. It is going to be painful. It’s hard to grow an organ back after it’s been ripped away from you completely. There are many sinews to be formed and severed tissues to be mended. But once it blooms back into its full glory, you will no longer dream of ghosts.
I have started going out on dates again. I am timid and skeptical of everyone. I have been so abused and broken that I feel I cannot trust anyone I meet. Even now, with my best prospect, I have to hold my joy in check. I find myself looking for the catch, looking for the inevitable fault. I start thinking to myself thoughts about potential other girlfriends, or perhaps a hidden wife, or perhaps he’s secretly got an addiction. Maybe he’s only leading me along for some sick joke. Maybe it’s just a game he plays in which he captures a girl’s heart then tramples all over it, tearing apart her ventricles, and laughs about it later with his mates. Maybe I’m misinterpreting all his motions, and he’s indifferent to my presence but too bored to spend the day at home alone.
Even still, the prospect of anything new gives me a slightly lighter step. My breaths are shallow with anxiety but the air tastes sweet. There is something out there, K. Don’t give up hope. There’s something waiting for us, yet. Perhaps it is over a week of insomnia and shattered nerves speaking, but I think there’s something better for us. There has to be. Because I can’t live with just this.
The air is painfully sweet. It burns my lungs but I don’t know if I could have it any other way. It is about time something lit a fire inside me.
Don’t give up. I couldn’t stand to suffer through this world without my complement.
-k
Sunday, June 12, 2016
In A Tunnel Under The Mountain
Dear K,
In my dreams she still comes to me. I'm as in love with her as I ever was. As I ever will be I suspect. Love like this doesn't fade, the edges just get softer like sea glass, tossed and tumbled by the waves until a bottle of Mountain Dew becomes an emerald. She told me in the dream that she was getting married and I've been burning with jealous rage all day. It was a dream. It was a dream. It was a dream. I can't stand it. I want her to come to me. I want to go to her. I want to say I'm sorry until my throat cracks and I choke on blood and I'll still scream to God I'm sorry. I miss her. I'm in love with a ghost, only she's out there.
I have to remind myself every day that I ended it. I was the one who looked around at it and said I'd had enough. I couldn't be that unhappy anymore. I couldn't let her push me around and push my friends away and push my sisters away, and I want children. I want to have beautiful little babies that stare up at me with wonder, and I want to raise them out in the country where you can't tell the fireflies from the stars in the midnight skies. I want that. But I want her. I want her to the point of tears. Some days if I breathe in too sharply I can feel the like of broken glass where my heart used to be. Some days it is hard to stop crying. I've learned how to cry on the inside and the tears just run down my insides and pool in my feet. I miss her. I miss the smell of her hair, her breath, her eyes, her voice, I miss her hands and feet and lungs and knees and hips and stomach and shoulders and breasts and teeth and tongue and nose and neck and ass and calves and thighs and forearms and elbows and scapula and liver and intestines and every other part therein.
I'm drowning in a ruined love.
Tell me there is air worth breathing,
K
In my dreams she still comes to me. I'm as in love with her as I ever was. As I ever will be I suspect. Love like this doesn't fade, the edges just get softer like sea glass, tossed and tumbled by the waves until a bottle of Mountain Dew becomes an emerald. She told me in the dream that she was getting married and I've been burning with jealous rage all day. It was a dream. It was a dream. It was a dream. I can't stand it. I want her to come to me. I want to go to her. I want to say I'm sorry until my throat cracks and I choke on blood and I'll still scream to God I'm sorry. I miss her. I'm in love with a ghost, only she's out there.
I have to remind myself every day that I ended it. I was the one who looked around at it and said I'd had enough. I couldn't be that unhappy anymore. I couldn't let her push me around and push my friends away and push my sisters away, and I want children. I want to have beautiful little babies that stare up at me with wonder, and I want to raise them out in the country where you can't tell the fireflies from the stars in the midnight skies. I want that. But I want her. I want her to the point of tears. Some days if I breathe in too sharply I can feel the like of broken glass where my heart used to be. Some days it is hard to stop crying. I've learned how to cry on the inside and the tears just run down my insides and pool in my feet. I miss her. I miss the smell of her hair, her breath, her eyes, her voice, I miss her hands and feet and lungs and knees and hips and stomach and shoulders and breasts and teeth and tongue and nose and neck and ass and calves and thighs and forearms and elbows and scapula and liver and intestines and every other part therein.
I'm drowning in a ruined love.
Tell me there is air worth breathing,
K
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Dear K,
I got the job. Today was my first day. It's a miserable little dungeon full of the kindest people I've met in this new city.
I don't like it here. I miss home. I miss being able to ride my bicycle out into the countryside and see fields and smell fresh country air and hear bird song and feel God stir me through the wind. The wind blows here too, but I don't feel God in it. I don't feel his kind hands, I feel grit and I smell garbage and fumes and people. The endless crowds of people. They press in around you. There is no escape from the crowds. This is how I die, pressed around by a mass of people.
Move to Des Moines. I'll move back. We'll write together. We can be neighbors and drink bottles of wine and sit on each other's back porches staring up into the night sky.
I feel older than I've ever felt, and I miss my home.
Take care of yourself,
K
I got the job. Today was my first day. It's a miserable little dungeon full of the kindest people I've met in this new city.
I don't like it here. I miss home. I miss being able to ride my bicycle out into the countryside and see fields and smell fresh country air and hear bird song and feel God stir me through the wind. The wind blows here too, but I don't feel God in it. I don't feel his kind hands, I feel grit and I smell garbage and fumes and people. The endless crowds of people. They press in around you. There is no escape from the crowds. This is how I die, pressed around by a mass of people.
Move to Des Moines. I'll move back. We'll write together. We can be neighbors and drink bottles of wine and sit on each other's back porches staring up into the night sky.
I feel older than I've ever felt, and I miss my home.
Take care of yourself,
K
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