January 23, 2003
Self Same
The entry that I wanted to write has slipped from my fingers like oil from water. At times, the tangles of my life bear down upon my shoulders and my stomach and my mind, and I can't think or move for the sheer heaviness of everything. The pressures of decisions I've made mingling with those I'm musing on making, memories reaching their arms out to actions, misjudgement running his fingers along the bare back of clarity.
We're both shaking, now.
It is not so overwhelming all the time. Occasionally, like the night before the morning when we'll wake up together, I'll lay there under the navy blue sheets with his hands in my hair and my hands tucked neatly under my body and tomorrow will seem a thousand years away, as will class and work and Dad and reading assignments and bad television and lonely walks in the cold and anxious mirrors. That moment will have become a permanent and radiant Then that no one, and nothing, can shatter, be it with breath or fist or hammer. When I am with him, it's not as important to worry and heave and allow my eyelids to move rapidly with thought before sleep.
When I am away from him, it all comes storming down in a great and glorious landslide, and some of the stones crash against my chest, and an ache begins there, and it aches for him. I listen to these same songs over and over again and they bring me a little closer to him. I look at my hands and I smile softly; the skin that they have touched is his skin and I am closer to him for the memory of my palms.
There is no should when it comes to the way things are, or the way that they will be. There is a frame of time wherein we can join hands and kiss and part only to join hands again, and it is for this frame that I am taking photographs. Last week, it was Mike in front of the bathroom mirror, making faces. The week before, it was me on the white carpet smiling through my hair.
There is no today. There was only this morning.
astera at 10:57 p.m.