There are always things I want to write in the moment, but then the moment passes.
I told you how I felt once, but you didn’t seem to care and I find myself in an interim of sorts.
I watched my mother with the baby and was reassured by how naturally it came to her and how much sense she made. The baby seemed upset and she encouraged him to yell and then he felt better. I wonder how strange it is to realize you were better with your children when they couldn’t speak, when all you needed to do was sense their discomfort, see it in their eyes, their body language. Now we’ve grown older and we hide it so well. Or we don’t. But it’s harder then.
I was somewhat heartbroken to hear of your extended stay. You caught onto my loneliness, but it’s not enough to change your mind. I don’t want to change your mind, I realize. I want … You told me to find a mate and have a child and maybe that would cure my loneliness. I didn’t say what I was thinking which was, then be my mate. I laughed aloud at myself. And at you. Such silly thoughts we think.
What am I doing, loving you? But love is like breathing, like laughing, like cooking. We just do. We teach ourselves or we learn from another or we just pick it up because of. There isn’t much purpose to much that we do. I think that is what I realized over the holiday. And I told my coworker, “It was good to be home because my family reminds me that so much of what I care about doesn’t matter.”
Usually I am happy to be alone again, but after 5 days of eating with others like me and sleeping with others like me and sharing all of me with others like me I come home and I am restless, antsy. I don’t want to sit alone or think alone. I could read. I could read or write or do all the things I do alone. I have spent ages alone. I prefer the others like me.