Rita record music happy tears ensue.

note to self

note to self:

Dating a younger man is never actually worth it.

A man my age is actually younger.

Cool guys start at thirty.



***



I want to drink my own voice, feed on music. I'm just so terribly scared it will dry up. It alwas did, before.

how

how do i master my mind, running unchecked between options in blind panic?


how do i master my soul, perhaps, to take my mind in a firm though gentle hold?


how do i master my body? how do i let it master me?


i am alone. those who could help, won't - those who can't, want to, badly - and so they give me their own fear, instead.

She comprises a CV. A lengthy list of past events that are supposed to describe and comprise her self, her personality, mind and soul; utterly pointless and yet compelling retelling of factors, given as proof that after a long time, she finally is good enough, deserves it, she's served her years, paid her debts, given her due. She's done the boring part of life, she would like the fun, cool and interesting now, please - she's fucking earned it, proved her worth, made it this far, should be rewarded.

She comprises a CV, only to realize that it says everything and anything; that the interpretation is still unclear; that the jury is still out. She comprises is only to think that if she needs to comprise it in order to prove things, she is the one lacking faith, before others that might - and that's the only lack that truly counts, beyond the empty spots on the list, invisible too all and any, but her own unseeing eyes.

i wonder at myself. after subconcious hints, thoughts and hope-against-hopes

i still have the capacity to be shell-shocked.


i have nothing profound to say.



oh wait, i do:

you think love is all you need.

but love is only all you want.

and it is not enough.

So what, who, were we, are we to each other?

Doors open to other realms (but how long can you stay within open doors)? We felt each other right away, like animals smelling their own kind. But what of it? is it enough?

Old issues are just covers - both in musical and metaphorical sense. They're covers of old happenings which will or won't happen again, no one can tell; they cover up the fact that until we move on with our individual lives, we don't have much to say to each other. We each have a desperation, but those desperate needs don't quite match now. They may match later, when we work ourselves out.

It's time for me to pick myself up by the scruff of my neck. I will look. I will search. I will consider. I will find. I will find my way out, and I hope he will, too.

Something has broken, and I can't tell if it's for better or worse, an ending, a beginning, both. I am here, right here and now, and I need to live in it. Again, after September, comes the "shelving" time; after we're both done, we can, perhaps - reconverge...

I'm not saying it's easy on me. Not at all. But it's simple. No sacrifice, we had said, and early on, too. Not even subconscious version of sacrifice. Because if there was sacrifice, not only we wouldn't forgive each other: we wouldn't have forgiven ourselves.

fast or slow?

Do we go fast or slow?

I still remember missing each other so badly for an evening or two - the impossible separation, the dragging of hours, the weary and excited wait for him to show up at my door.

I dislike remembering the desperation tinged efforts of my thesis-writing. That was a special time, during which missing each other was relegated to backburner, out of necessity. No that it was any less desperate.

Now we are just weary and desensitized. Nevertheless. It's like a steady drain on the system. And even if the excitement of seeing him will wear off with time, I'm very ready to just, be around each other. This is too impossible. Seems just impossible to take it.

And I prohibit wanting. It takes energy to want and not receive.