Hoping to death and beyond that anyone cares as much as I do about saying goodbye to the ocean. Wanting to be one of the the tiny sea waves in the harsh wind that is swept from the sand, into the oblivion of the Pacific.
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[AN ASIDE]
I look at your pictures, at your words, every day. I analyze them and search for effigies of myself, hoping still to find remorse in your voice, hoping to find the flint glint of me that I've convinced myself you stole from me. But in the space and time between then and now, some strange mellowing has happened; your words/writing have become familiar to be, non-dangerous, friendly even. I know the rythm of your prose, the patterns of your cover-ups, your trends towards indecipherable garble (in good times), and honest clarity (in bad times). I say this only to the sea foam ether, but I enjoy your work.
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It is a hard truth to admit that I am lonelier as I grow older. In spite of having a loving (if pessimistic) partner, in spite of a thriving life, I feel the beginning of that black-rock loneliness that we have all heard about; I wonder how much further it will go, and how much it will affect everything that I presently have in my life. I am thirty-one years old, and there is still so much craziness that lay ahead.
We watched 'Synechdoche, NY' the other day (when I was home sick for the afternoon), and it fucked me up. I didn't particularly like the movie, but it brought up all the terrifying realities of being a human being who just keeps on going. The things that end up being our constants are never the things we expect; the partner, the house, the school, the job, the parents... they are not, I think, what end up being the threads we produce our life from.
My threads are, so far, frayed phantom limbs, just beginning to unclench.
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