In the taller grass

I am writing emails. I have one call to make to confirm something that I am hoping is not just an expectation I have, but is actually happening and a few I am waiting to receive, but otherwise, I am able to fully invest myself in the writing of this.  I have also spent a fair amount of time this morning trashing old emails.  Four gmail accounts that haven’t been spruced up in an age, and I’m just slowly clearing out junk.  That junk includes things from eight to ten years ago when I had made some strides and was talking to some people out there in the universe.
All of these people are now…more or less…lost to me.  I mean, I am friends with a couple on Facebook but we never speak.  In all cases, this is entirely my fault. Of particular note, there’s one who broke my heart and the other a friend I callously tossed aside out of some vile, repugnant perfectionism within myself that will one day require a reckoning.  He wrote to me then that I was someone who could read his impressions and know what they really mean. I have my moments, I realize, when I am deeply terrible.
But I note how solid was my view of self as a broken instrument at that point, how very different my desires were, the naivete that poured out of me. How much I longed to be open with people and how completely walled off I was. I am revisiting a world that has been shelved for a decade.   What it was to work at the office I worked at, to know the walls that I knew then. The minute someone was not the ideal, when they infringed slightly on what I expected them to do or be or say, out they went.  And now I am just left with ephemera we created together.
That I have progressed from that point does give me some hope for future days.  For this question of J and what it means.  It’s a big question.
It is a huge question.  What happens for us in the long-term supposing our eventual meetup goes well?  If the only manner in which we can exist permanently in one another’s spheres is for me to move there, well, no.  No.  I would find that really awful.  It’s the other side of the country, but it might as well be the other side of the world when it comes to my daily expectation of contact with family.  I would like to imagine myself having grown in ways that would allow it, but a visit is all I can muster any enthusiasm over.
Twas nice yesterday to come home to a fully-written post, to food in the house I was well equipped to cook and eat, twas nice to think about dollars saved.
Twas nice to be done with the bulk of the matter before my brain gave out which it has just at this moment.

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