Dear world,
I have been considering the selfish nature of conversation, how vocalizing or writing or whatever it is to another I inevitably stumble upon something of myself, or at least something that came out of myself, that I will hold onto. This way of discussing, particularly effective in the most long form version that comes from writing letters, where there is ample time to think or not think before you speak, and sit with it before it is heard, reminds/explains to/shows me what I've been keeping inside. Does that render this sort of quasi letter to no one an even more self-centered task? Or am I relieved of the burden of am I talking about myself too much when it's not directed at anyone in particular. This act of writing is more about documenting. It is okay to speak into the nothingness that is everything online. I want to share.
N and I had a wonderful trip to New York, brief as time always feels there, yet important. It was nice to step out of life and run the water as long as I want, not worrying about generators or freezing pipes or cold gauntlets. I wish that everyday could be filled with such luxury, and not much to do, but I know it wouldn't feel as special! Not everything can be great or else everything is bland!
When I think of the future it's easy to get overwhelmed. I think it is incredibly natural to be comparative, especially because everyones individual trajectory seems to be so publicized in such a way that makes it so easy to compare. Perhaps also because it seems hard to figure out where I'm going to be (literally, geographically, as well as in the most abstract way). In many ways it seems like it would be easy to become rooted in this little corner of Connecticut. I have two jobs that I am (at the least) content with and are in the field I want to be in, I'm fixing up a house, N finds this world (at the least) enjoyable enough. Would I become complacent within this structure? Why do I crave structure so badly while simultaneously being repulsed by the idea?My knuckles are dry, so too is every part of me, and my eyes keep wanting to blur even though the CVS minute clinic doctor was impressed by my vision. Every time I accidentally brush up against an edge my skin splits, how sensitive.
Maybe the winter makes me think of the future because my hands always look so old. I don't really want to look into the magic-future-telling-orb as much as I think I do, because perhaps it really is about the journey. I just want to know how to get where I want to go, like driving without a GPS, but first I might have to pick a destination. Maybe.
Bare with me while I figure it out, and please be gentle,
Elise
