The Thisness

There are things for which I should use this space to discuss, but I am not entirely sure if that’s wise, so, suffice to say, I am learning how much I don’t know about things I have never been tested on.

Trust.  Companionship.  Presence.  Empathy.

In some ways, I feel very much like a child.

It is a stumbling, tumbling down way to go.

I am fine, of course, just thoughtful, thinking, a menace inside my own head.  Absorbed up in this thing and what it means to be absorbed up in something not entirely of my own making.

How to make room for all the rest, the words, the chill, the open fields, the archives unending of memories and emotions I have tried to learn so completely they could not be unlearnt.  All the while, honoring the thisness of this this.  He and I and the imperfection that unsettles me in the darkness, the kind and warm connection that exudes in the day, the tendrils of each adulterating the other.

I find myself saying things I didn’t think I would say, didn’t think my lips could form, and getting reactions that I don’t entirely know how to mentally resolve.  Yesses and nos and maybes and the sense that we are floating and weaving somehow between all of these things and any wider barriers.

It couldn’t be otherwise, it could only be exactly as it is.