2004-01-16 at 7:16 p.m.
I find myself explaining myself at lunch - it's not that I don't like sharing myself but that I am also content to share myself with me, it is that I like the serenity of my thoughts, the rush of walking with only the company of words.
When I see you this morning, I am at a point past angry.
You do it quietly, effortlessly, lovingly, suddenly I have shed the sadness I have been carrying for days, surrendered it to you.
It's just me and the steady pulse of words, mine and then yours through the phone. This isn't an interstitial space. This is where it all happens.
Not the night but everything underneath it. On the floor between the sofa and the table, your voice travels quickly and suddenly, we are laughing again. I remember why I hung up quickly last night. I know I needed breathing room, creative space, some understanding for my intellectual crisis of faith. And I know why I am here now.
I sit with the questions like an awkward silence. Everything about everything in the future is blurry.
It's a five-minute hour, talking to you, the seconds slip quickly and suddenly night is rushing in and it's time to put the phone down again. All of the questions point to what's next but I have no answer.
Still there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination.
Everything revolves around the future now, what's next haunts me. I've never known this sort of doubt before. At every point before this, there has been direction and path and place and location and now there is nothing but my own wants, my own longings.
You never seem fucking satisfied !
I've been neglecting my writing (and my diary). I've been under the weather, disengaged and uninterested, just going through the motions.
Not talking to you, even for five minutes, is harder for me than you know.
I ache for you.
And yet I know I need this time.
I miss you.
I grant myself license to speak in circles when you infuriate me. I feel it about to spill over, the moment the soup trickles down the spine of the cup onto the counter, the anger reaching the brim. But I swallow.