The other day I ate a box of pocky for breakfast while writing in my note book. I spent that day walking, talking, going to a show, visiting with people.
Patiently waiting to go to sleep so I could wake up and go to the greyhound and meet a friend. Patiently waiting to see them, hear their thoughts and ideas.
It’s 3 days later and I’ve done a lot of things. I played a show for the first time in years, took my friend back to the bus station, visited with long lost pals. Now my friends are sleeping or working and I’m in limbo. When should I go home?
And sometimes I feel like the core of myself is built out of ramshackle patience. Tied and taped together with other little things to add edge. That, if I’m not careful while I climb to the top of my being looking for my truth, my whole self will collapse. If I’m not careful or cautious of my foot hold, I’ll bring my whole self down.
I’ve had more feelings lately. Or maybe I’ve always had these feelings but someone came and took out the shit that was in the way and now I can feel them. Because I’ve cried before, but not like this.
And I’ve felt hopelessly hopeful before, but with more definition.
And I’ve been shook up and and down by this life. I’ve been too burnt to want to say I could believe in anything. I’ve been lost and tired and scared.
And right now, today, in this moment, I’m not sure what I feel. I’m not used to things being good or ok. I’m not used to believing in everything all at once. I’m not used to these intense emotions I feel for some of the people in my life or feeling this fucking hard.
Ivy came and laid next to me this morning with words and encouragement and humour. She told me that I make her feel like a better person than she thinks she is. I inspire her to find drive to believe that all of us can find a way to be OK, some how.
And I couldn’t stop crying.