Tonight felt so much like what this used to feel like.
Evan is gone. Backpacking. And this feels alone like I used to be. Alone.
Staying up late, working on projects, drinking wine, listening to this:
And flipping through an old friend of a book, trying to help a commenter who got lost in the mix. Remembering the power of this:
“Because secrets do not increase in value if kept in a gore-ian lockbox, because one’s past is either made useful or else mutates and becomes cancerous. We share things for the obvious reasons: it makes us feel un-alone, it spreads the weight over a larger area, it holds the possibility of making our share lighter. And it can work either way – not simply as a pain-relief device, but, in the case of not bad news but good, as a share-the-happy-things-I’ve-seen/lessons-I’ve-learned vehicle. Or as a tool for simple connectivity for its own sake, a testing of waters, a stab at engagement with a mass of strangers.”
– A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. [Dave Eggers].
It rings so true and affirms decisions to turn harboring weight into art. Use it. Mold it. Be it. Show it.
We all got things to hide.
Sitting in this seat. Working. Staring at a screen. The windows open. Hearing people at the park down the road. Cheering. Laughing. Yelling. And just sitting here. Staring. Listening. More wine, please. Don’t mind if I do.
Photos of myself. Just like it used to be. Just like it used to feel.
It’s just a reflektor.
Making sure I’m still here. Like it used to be. Still in a kitchen.
Is my kitchen messy? Is it messier than most? Every single drawer is open. Every drawer in my life is open at least a little bit… some are spilling; some only hanging on by frictioning geometry.
Do I look older? Shit, I am older. Wait. Am I old? No. Right?
It’s time for the night.