Good ol’ black tar loneliness. Wrap your everlovin’ arms around me.
Weird how it ebbs and flows. Weird how you don’t learn any lessons, you just watch it pool around your ankles and then, just as suddenly, draw back towards other shores. You go all watery, agog, tremulous and keen. And forget as though you suffered such pain you couldn’t recall anything but peace.
The computer I was delicately caring for in its time of great frailty is still working, however, my sister who flips off lights when I am using them, decided to close my laptop. This put a big massive, unbearable crack right through the side of it. It’s still charging, but I can’t open it wide enough.
The group. The man of the group who had a sort of Man of La Mancha vibe for a moment. A Mr. Rochester-lite is not the man of my octopus hearts and tri-chambered dreams. He’s old, for one. I have nothing against old. Old is preferred, in fact. But I feel as though old means that my frittered advances are extra frittered away. There’s always a chance I could win him over with my excellent and prodigious wit. But he lives very far away to begin with and is focusing on self-care and not bemoaning the status quo in the little group. And with his absent participation, all I have left are a pair of kind-hearts that I would be abusing by demanding attention and refusing to offer affection, as Mr. Mumford once wailed against. I don’t want to be the sort of girl who flutters in and chatters away in someone’s ear, flirting and cooing and knowing outright that I don’t mean any of it. Spending hours chatting back and forth with someone in a singles group when the charge I feel is getting to be heard, rather than hearing. That’s cruel, ultimately, and I don’t find much or really any pleasure in receiving one-sided romantic energy. I know I could fake it. Effortlessly, almost. But I don’t want to have to just to keep someone from posting about their own aloneness on FB, where we all are drug along with it. I refuse to accept the responsibility of making others feel good just because I am standing there.
I’m tired, I have my own shit going on. If that hasn’t been made abundantly clear.
I followed the advice and worked as hard as I could on what I could today and let it go. Then, I drove the straightforwardish (far more straightforward for me) way to writing group. There were just three of us, but it was good. The social aspects are good even if I don’t necessarily get the sort of feedback that would help me. I’ve said that before. It’s just enough to kick the can forward two weeks and be human and out in public when I’m not wearing the service person mask.
I had music that carried me through and I woke up after a beautiful dream of driving through Seattle. Driving or riding or flying over their wacky interstates, trees everywhere, light absorbing through my skin.