I shrug my shoulders and don’t make mistakes

It’s January 28, 2016. I am closer to 29 than 28. I have one foot out the door and one foot poised to hold me in the door. Always straddling the line. Those borderlands where I flourish.

I meant what I said earlier about not re-reading what I write. Don’t do it. The context is completely lacking and that is often necessary to inform my story. You can go back and read the lines, even read between the lines, and maybe glance my meaning, yet the moment has passed. My rationale for writing has faded. It was the best feeling in the moment for me; it prompts me; and then it passes. Some day maybe my writing will be good enough to capture that feeling, to hold it intact, to capture it whole and keep it precious against the elements of time and new knowledge and the inconsistency of self. Me changing my mind or growing or falling out of touch. The inevitable erosion of my meaning. I hope to write well enough some day so that you won’t need my context or the structure of my feeling to relate or fully understand. Because sometimes I write when I’m delirious and tired. Sometimes I write when I’m hungry and desperate. Sometimes I write when I’m distracted with people. Some day, you won’t need to know it was the day I wore the blue sweater or the red hat or forgot my lunch. I can only keep working until I get to that some day.

And thank you isn’t enough. Thank you is a phrase I say to strangers willy nilly. Thank you for not bumping into me. Thank you for using your turn signal. Thank you for pausing. Grateful sounds trite and shallow. Passive and weak. What is the phrase? What is the meaning? I just want you to know, I’m searching for the sentiment that isn’t empty solely to give to you. I’m searching for that phrase, if you’re my girl, then I’m your man, you know? At least, something similar.

“wanna give back the things I plan to take” because I will undoubtedly piece out our moments together. I only guesstimate at your reactions and how the moments appear from your point of view. I write them down. I try to knit them together–your moments and my moments. They mix up and are tainted by my lack of context, by my red hat, by my feeling for that moment. I try to create the very thing I do not believe in–capital T truth. Not to hold it up to the light in all its perfection, more I think to remind myself that it is a haphazard futile undertaking. More I think to remind myself that when the moments come together on their own, the light will shine through. I will get it. It will make sense and in the moment I’ll look back at myself trying to construct her slipshod shanty and smile. I told you so.


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