The sunlight entering the bedroom through the glass of the sliding door seems out of place.
You are sleepy and numb. Christmas is less than a week away. None of it is making sense.
Sunlight, your self, Christmas. This is called disorientation. Not the best place to begin.
Before falling asleep last night, an article appeared on Facebook - oracle to the psychotic -
about how you can identify if you are in a relationship with an EU (Emotionally Unavailable) person.
The list of symptoms loop in your head this morning.
Almost all of them are present. This is what you have been trying not to know.
Meanwhile, the bird feeder is abandoned again and the phone is silent. The article's author recommends letting go of what is not meant for you. This advice seems to be everywhere.
Where are the bells of Christmas? Why can't you see her face?
And when they say "meant" who exactly is doing the meaning? Is it her Fate? It's predetermined, she said. This thing lasts for as long as it does regardless of our hopes, desires, mistakes or misdeeds. What a great alibi for what is wasted, neglected or murdered. What a great consolation for what is lost, what cannot be held.
Is God the author of our story? Are we instruments of some higher purpose? Characters in a divine plot line - a couple seeking shelter to birth a baby, children thrown into flames, Judas in despair suspended in the garden.
Or are we writing this as we speak - ultimately responsible for its life continuing, and for its slow or sudden death. My fingertips are on the keys, so are yours. But you never let me read what you write.
Then of course there is the possibility that the author tends to romanticize the ordinary, and that the true answer is simply - dude, she's just not that into you.
The place you are writing from is not a good one, but it's still coming.
There's a story about an Eskimo healer, Maniilaq, you heard a long time ago. He said all he ever learned came out of suffering and solitude. Consider this an education. Amen.
You are sleepy and numb. Christmas is less than a week away. None of it is making sense.
Sunlight, your self, Christmas. This is called disorientation. Not the best place to begin.
Before falling asleep last night, an article appeared on Facebook - oracle to the psychotic -
about how you can identify if you are in a relationship with an EU (Emotionally Unavailable) person.
The list of symptoms loop in your head this morning.
Almost all of them are present. This is what you have been trying not to know.
Meanwhile, the bird feeder is abandoned again and the phone is silent. The article's author recommends letting go of what is not meant for you. This advice seems to be everywhere.
Where are the bells of Christmas? Why can't you see her face?
And when they say "meant" who exactly is doing the meaning? Is it her Fate? It's predetermined, she said. This thing lasts for as long as it does regardless of our hopes, desires, mistakes or misdeeds. What a great alibi for what is wasted, neglected or murdered. What a great consolation for what is lost, what cannot be held.
Is God the author of our story? Are we instruments of some higher purpose? Characters in a divine plot line - a couple seeking shelter to birth a baby, children thrown into flames, Judas in despair suspended in the garden.
Or are we writing this as we speak - ultimately responsible for its life continuing, and for its slow or sudden death. My fingertips are on the keys, so are yours. But you never let me read what you write.
Then of course there is the possibility that the author tends to romanticize the ordinary, and that the true answer is simply - dude, she's just not that into you.
The place you are writing from is not a good one, but it's still coming.
There's a story about an Eskimo healer, Maniilaq, you heard a long time ago. He said all he ever learned came out of suffering and solitude. Consider this an education. Amen.
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