That bright white space. It feels deeply comforting tonight. Ready and in alignment with the rest of me. Somehow a bit minty.
Tomorrow we’re greeted with May. I did not decide until late last night when I was putting together the order that I needed to use this shot to work on something that doesn’t make me feel gross.
The fitbit is charging. I rode the bike for ten minutes but felt as though I could have done an hour.
I am deciding if…
I just need to take off the shackles and start to run. There is a race horse in here, biting at their bit, legs aching to burst out on the fields and move, a whole body at a time, away from the starting point.
Critics are so very unwelcome.
I need the time of day. There are things that I would like to have written down. Being called sweetie unbidden. Being thanked for being around. Measuring spoons for emotional interactions. Scales constantly recalibrated. Am I moving into the deep water or is the tide just rolling in? I have to see more and I think to do that, I have to up my ante. And I have to risk what’s on the table. I have to actually play the game.
No lies, no obsfuscation, no half-truths, but it is still a game with rules and win/lose criteria and even if you use the clearest version of your head where sits the clearest version of your eyes, you can still miss the thing right in front of you.
Of course he still loves her. Of course he does, despite this savage pain that is okay and not okay simultaneously. She is beautiful. The elf against the me, the little hobbit which I find as savage a comparison as I can both make and endure. I have craved a lithe, ethereal frame to match this striving, if woefully deluded soul. I have been cast in a smaller role. With imperfections a’plenty. And every now and then she intersects us. A facebook reminder. A bill. An Amazon list she’s made and I am suddenly…not cast aside, but bid to sit alongside in hallowed suffering until the razor-sharp pain subsides.
I am quite prepared for such a task. For abeyance. For the washing of feet. For the silent process of taking on pains that have nothing to do with me.
But having been told, more than once, more than I could cast as just a trick of light, that I am wanted and am beautiful, been given enough leeway that I can crawl up to sit at this dais and sup off the golden plates, it’s hard to to feel as though it’s all a joke. Fuck. It’s not a joke…I just…no one’s said it’s a joke. Nothing’s been rescinded. Nothing’s been withdrawn. Things have been doubled down on.
It’s just this idle thought that comes to me when things are quieter, our words are less at ease: thoughts are occurring to him that I can’t stop. He is working her over in his mind as a cow works a cud, until there’s no juice left. That dwelling on her absence is more important than acknowledging my presence. That I am a soft, comfortable kind voice that doesn’t threaten the past because it has no future.
Those kisses that can’t hold, those tears that can’t draw back.