Saturday, June 18, 2016

A guarded enthusiasm.

I have a thing for flimsy grey shirts. And tiny chocolates in fancy wrapping. And plums. I love that they're red and juicy and inviting and I love the mayhem they cause in your mouth if you swallow one whole. I used to be big on movies. Watching them and reading about them and keeping up with what's new. Not anymore. I'm not listening to a lot of music either. Hardly, actually. I did read more this past year or two. A lot more. But now that I'm working, there isn't time for that either. Even when I do get free time it's as if I don't know what to do with myself. I eat or sleep or hangout with N. And that's that.

"We cannot say who has come, perhaps we shall never know, but many signs indicate that the future enters into us in this way in order to transform itself in us long before it happens. And this is why it is so important to be lonely and attentive when one is sad: because the apparently uneventful and stark moment at which our future sets foot in us is so much closer to life than that other noisy and fortuitous point of time at which it happens to us as if from outside."

It's a Sunday and moms coming back today. I told her I'm happy she's coming so that she will make me lassi. It's supposed to cool you down isn't it? Mommy's are miracles.
Anyway today is Sunday and the restless little shit that I am. I made a plan with the sisters to go out for dessert but after that went to shit we decided to make something at home. And then I did all the dishes and now my back is burning from all the pain. There's something wrong with my posture I'm sure. Which is why my back hurts as much as it does.

My momma makes me laugh. She's crazy like that. I get that from her. The crazy. Sometimes she says things and I can do nothing but laugh. It makes me happy.

I need new friends. And new conversations. And new connections.

I always have to write. No matter what. No matter where when how. I write badly in a journal on my phone. I write incoherently. At times it is but half a sentence, a stray thought, nothing more. I write on tissue papers and small notebooks and idle pages. My mind gets full easily and every now and then things get too saturated and then I have to let it out. Time and time again I have written to people the way I write to myself. It doesn't last. Humans have brains and opinions and moods. Unlike good old paper. Complicates things. Anyhow.

Weird how you never know how your day is going to turn out when you wake up. Today was supposed to be a normal day at work and then home. Or maybe a plan with N. But work happened and then someone died and I ended up at a funeral of someone i didn't really know and felt feelings about death that exhausted me in more ways than one.

"Beyond a certain point there really is no place to go, except into your own heart. "