Marie Kondo

I do not have the words for us. When I wake up in the middle of the night, it is my brain searching for the words. Surely, now, in the dark and the quiet of the nights, I can put them together. Sort it out. I can quiet this ache, no, this hum in my chest. You make everything hum. You are not the storm, you are the pulse of energy that sweeps the yard before the storm. (I am the storm.) I know that you are coming but that does not feel the same as when I am overcome.  

I think about how I ask you questions I already know the answer to out of respect for you. I should not presume to know. But then you jab back at me, like I should know. Like you shouldn’t have to answer. Like I am wasting our time. I should stop poking at you, but I keep doing it. It is a weird, validating game for me. I know how you think. Not what but how. There is not a word for our dynamic of obvious question asking and answering. 

You walked in, and I felt joy. You bring joy to my life. I did not know what joy felt like before. You are here and here is joy and what a lot that is to feel. 

I’m awake trying to find better words than this, but this is all that keeps circling, so I write it down. I tell myself this might not be what I expected but these are feelings. They work this way. This is a way of being in the world. This is something you might not be able to parse out and name. Because it is whole, complex. It has developing flavors. 


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