I made an error of judgement. A mistake as it were. I thought time away was needed. To sit in simplicity somewhere and contemplate the infinite, or the finite, or the temperature, or the fucking mosquitoes or what-the-fuck-ever. I was only partly right. Time away was definitely needed, but motion was also an essential element. To be forced to focus on something that would drive the mind to quiet, to focus on the immediate and visceral things around me. Only action, reaction, decision and the idle mental wandering a brain can only achieve when it’s occupied by a particular task. So the camping itself wasn’t the highlight, although it was efficient and comfortable enough and fulfilled its main requirement, of forcing time away. But the riding to get there and the riding to come back, those were excellent. And when I returned I wanted more. Now I know better for next time. The motion is the thing. Don’t stay put. Move and move again. Always move. Never stop moving. There’s no home to miss if you never stay in one place long enough for it to become home. There’s no home to leave if you never go home. There’s no heart to call home if you only keep moving.
I hate that I miss you so much. Why should stupid, idle chatter be so important and filled with meaning? I hate that I’m not that thing that I should so obviously be… better. The music tastes bitter and the words all have sharp edges and shardy fragments that bite into my skin as I skip my faltering tongue over them. Tripping on my teeth as I try to spill them forth in the most beautiful way possible. In the end I’ve got a coppery mouth filled with blood and a series of incoherent thoughts that shatter my eyes from the inside so that single, liquid gems pool in them constantly. My beard is soaked red and my smile is crooked with the choking stones of words that she told me could never be trusted. None of this is your fault, none of it your burden. This is just how I am now. Torn to shreds from the inside and occasionally pressed to push forth wounded and minced organs. Of course you can’t trust me. I can’t trust myself. I’m made of my words and my words are ash. Held together only by the blood of those I’ve hurt, and when that dries I’ll drift away in the first strong wind. I’m barely substantial enough to make you blink. And yet, I hate that I miss you so much.
It’s better than I feared, worse than I thought and so much more complicated than any sane person would put up with. (Un)fortunately sane choices have never been my stock in trade.
Loud rock music is definitely helping.
Possibly/Probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever said:
“You’re like a fucking unicorn. A unicorn that shits rainbows. You’re impossible.”
Just this. Over and over again, this.
I wasn’t looking for this. Well, not exactly this. Not in this way. Not with these conditions. Not under these restrictions. This wasn’t the plan at all.
You’re fucking scared, I’m fucking terrified.
And yet. And yet.
I don’t know what happens next. I sure as fucking hell have no idea what happens after that.
What a fucking clusterfuck.
And yet. And yet.
Waves break on beaches, breaking beaches.