The Winter of my Discontent.
A thought came to me last evening, after a brief conversation with Nic. She asked me why I'm moving so fast--why I can't slow down. I told her I do not have the luxury of time. Winter is coming and, with it, the inevitable end of my good luck.
Last weekend I fell in the shower--my legs gave out--and I sliced my leg and foot with the straightrazor I was using to shave. This was Friday morning. I did not realize just how bad the cut was (my feet are especially numb of late, which makes walking awkward) until the security guard stopped me in the airport and told me I was bleeding.
I bled through my suit, and my socks, and my shoes. It was embarrassing, sure, but it was also terrifying: I had no idea it was happening.
It resulted in stitches, of course--and these crutches, which I've been trying to avoid.
Brody sent me "Way to be a dumbass!" flowers; no mercy from that guy, let me tell you, but they made me smile.
I stayed in Chicago. I hope to come home on Friday.
The bit about time and luxury--it was a front. She called me out on it immediately. So I told her the truth, which is never easy. I told her that I want to prove that I can reinvent myself--the I can change and get better and fulfill promises just as well as the next man--so that I can be proud of me again. I want to believe in me again, even in the most general terms, instead of doubting myself like he made me do.
She told me that moving too fast can simply make people hate you.
I think she is right, but now that I am moving, I am afraid to stop. I do not want to go stagnant again.
Time, though--it does feel like a luxury to me. It may be the only luxury I cannot have, anymore, apart from earth-shattering love. I've wasted a lot of it; I've hesitated too often and lost too many chances, and I've sacrificed a lot of time to earn the days I have now (in relative health).
I have a lot of good days.
I am content, and Brody is a good man, and all of this is very practical. I am a very practical person.
He also understands. He leaves me alone when I am like this--thinking too much. I know it hurts him, but these are things I have to work out on my own. When he called last night, he knew immediately.
"Spending the night with him, are you?"
"--Yes, tonight. Give me tonight."
"What's tonight when I get tomorrow? Sleep well."
I don't deserve him, but when have I ever deserved a good man?
This is how time works: days pass swiftly in fair winds and warmth; the sun is the friend of folly--the cosmic enabler, servant to the same gravity as these midnight stars.
The light is hidden behind clouds that look remarkably like you.
She sent me that. She told me I'd figure it out. I did.
It's tomorrow now.
Last weekend I fell in the shower--my legs gave out--and I sliced my leg and foot with the straightrazor I was using to shave. This was Friday morning. I did not realize just how bad the cut was (my feet are especially numb of late, which makes walking awkward) until the security guard stopped me in the airport and told me I was bleeding.
I bled through my suit, and my socks, and my shoes. It was embarrassing, sure, but it was also terrifying: I had no idea it was happening.
It resulted in stitches, of course--and these crutches, which I've been trying to avoid.
Brody sent me "Way to be a dumbass!" flowers; no mercy from that guy, let me tell you, but they made me smile.
I stayed in Chicago. I hope to come home on Friday.
The bit about time and luxury--it was a front. She called me out on it immediately. So I told her the truth, which is never easy. I told her that I want to prove that I can reinvent myself--the I can change and get better and fulfill promises just as well as the next man--so that I can be proud of me again. I want to believe in me again, even in the most general terms, instead of doubting myself like he made me do.
She told me that moving too fast can simply make people hate you.
I think she is right, but now that I am moving, I am afraid to stop. I do not want to go stagnant again.
Time, though--it does feel like a luxury to me. It may be the only luxury I cannot have, anymore, apart from earth-shattering love. I've wasted a lot of it; I've hesitated too often and lost too many chances, and I've sacrificed a lot of time to earn the days I have now (in relative health).
I have a lot of good days.
I am content, and Brody is a good man, and all of this is very practical. I am a very practical person.
He also understands. He leaves me alone when I am like this--thinking too much. I know it hurts him, but these are things I have to work out on my own. When he called last night, he knew immediately.
"Spending the night with him, are you?"
"--Yes, tonight. Give me tonight."
"What's tonight when I get tomorrow? Sleep well."
I don't deserve him, but when have I ever deserved a good man?
This is how time works: days pass swiftly in fair winds and warmth; the sun is the friend of folly--the cosmic enabler, servant to the same gravity as these midnight stars.
The light is hidden behind clouds that look remarkably like you.
She sent me that. She told me I'd figure it out. I did.
It's tomorrow now.