It’s odd, this. Unwavering yet intermittent. It comes, goes, grips at once like a flu and at another moment, unremarkable. Symptoms are scattered, inconsistent. There are patches of day in which the void is so whole, so pronounced, distinct, yet life happens just as it has, to do task lists tallied. The gas tank is filled at a familiar spot, staples purchased at stops that provide the most ease. Shared spots? Perhaps. I’ve no idea. Can you imagine? It’s odd, that.
There is much to share in the moment.
Do you remember me? The shade has changed but the rest remains the same. The spark I suspect once intrigued is intact. I’m in motion. I’m reading and watching. Writing. I’ve questions about the most ordinary of days, about itineraries and meals, photographs and followers. I answer them for myself and hope I’ve come close. I trust I have. I laugh and plan and hold my own when least expected. Take care not to confuse action with content.
There is anger. Anger tempered by understanding, a frustrating combination. It’s very adult, of course, recognizing when life is more important than you are, for the moment or forever. Adult doesn’t matter much when the child in you wants connection, warm skin, discovery.
The tie is understood, inherent to us being, of course. It all is so. Quite simple, really. A promise from both sides exists in word and thought that we’re there if the other should be in need. Only a part of me remains confused. If not now, when could we possibly need the other more?
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