Dear grieving heart, I am sorry for all you’ve gone through as it seems trite to type. Writing it out feels unbearable, as if to put it on paper brings it more into reality.
Where am I?
Am I typing too loudly? Thinking too loudly? Pouting too loudly? What’s too loud are those 21st century vehicles pulling up to a stop sign directly outside my paper sheeted apartment wall. The stop sign means stop motherfucker.
I can’t believe this is my life. I literally can’t believe it. No amount of money could pay me to do this reality show. Especially the suspension of not knowing. My life is a ghost – in between, not yet one place or another.
I feel stupid and privileged to complain, but I can’t hold it in. It just falls out of my mouth when another asks, ‘how am I doing’? I want to unload the baskets I carry on my head, just to take a rest from my own thoughts. I feel embarrassed to sound like a PriMadonna, needing more than what many have. “Be fucking grateful”, I shout to myself silently. Followed with, “ahhh fuck it all!”
I want a dog.
I miss having creative space to have creative thoughts. I shower a lot because it’s the only time I get this space. It’s still noisy though.
I just want to cry, but I know I’ll be interrupted.
I swear I’m dead, at times. All of us are. Like we’re on our own version of Lost. Me, I’ve been sucked into, multiple times, the smoke monster.
I just don’t know how I feel because my feelings are too big but simultaneously suspended.
When you touch your thumb nails together in the dim backlight, it looks like they’re not really touching, but you feel them touching. I just realized this is the explanation of Quantum Physics.
Today, I have to give up my heart, once again. My husband and a friend have to do the trek of getting back to our house which still has a giant crack in the mountain above it to retrieve a few circular fans because it’s hot, too hot for Alaska. We haven’t been able to get there since January, when everything was frozen including the mountain. It’s almost July now. I fucking hate this. Having to contemplate writing a will not only to cross the landslide, but also being around our home that could kill us within a moment. We are still in the ‘red zone’.
Aren’t we supposed to have a future? I guess if we’re already dead, why does it matter? This writing is for me, regardless if shared.
I’m tired of being my own guru, learning shit. Fuck the master numbers, in which case I have a lot of. Dry-crying is my cleansing, I guess. I see myself crying, I feel it, but I don’t literally see it, nor feel it.
The sun refuses to set now.
Sometimes it all feels like too much. But on some level, I’m not sure I would change much. Except death.
On a lighter note, I had a lot of fun being a fairy in fishnets colddipping in our Alaskan ocean.
Life can still be fun.
Finding my inner fae,