scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

1.3.11

i dreamt, in the very literal sense, while i was sleeping, some days or even weeks ago: i'd had it before, a hundred times or more, and never come to the end. i did it, finally, and it was what i'd been dreading, and it was all okay, when i was there. It was my turn. It was only the anticipation that was so awful.

I know this, i've always known, since the beginning. I remember talking about it with C and she said that she was done, for ever, never again, and the thought of being done was just so different, so foreign, i think i talked about it with S, i think i mentioned it to L, why on earth would i possibly be done? For one lemon? Or two, or five, or seven, like Liz Taylor?

There is fog, with a bright line. i am afraid of the fog, and i am afraid of the bright line. I'm pretty sure that's normal, since he left - there must be a map for this, somewhere. i should know better, and inthisnow, in my travelling bubble moment, it's okay. I said i was lucky, like thunder in my ears, light behind my eyes, light in winter. I know that to not follow the line is more terrifying than to follow the line. I know this empirically, in the blind world inside my head. It is better, to have the line, to have this web, to build it and trust it and believe it. It is better to grope in the dark, in the red and black, and hope for a line, for a connection.

Labels: reflection, separation

scrawled @ 09:43

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