I always start journal type things and then forget to write in them. I have many started journals. Is my life inherently boring? Or is it so exciting, writing slips my mind? Or do the things I have to say I just want to keep in my mind?
I have spent the past few months very diligently lisening to new music. Theres been a few that have stuck out of the rest, but it seems to kind of all just blend together. Maybe its my own lack of adventure. Other people’s music has been such a solace to me, the only real spirtual place I have been. But my faith is being questioned. So, i should pick up my own guitar and write the same songs that have been circulating the globe for centuries. Is there any original thought? Is there anything new? I can not answer that, but it is quite emancipating to make some noise.
I lost something very special to me a couple months back. Maybe not in its entirety, but it has diminished enough to become something different in form now. Still, the memory and connection still glisten in the morning and puncture into the night.
I crave the knowledge to understand more completely how/why this bereavement came as it did. I suppose I possess it in my head that understanding will lead to freedom from the bondage of my abysmal coupling (love), but I am not sure if that is truely accurate.
Now my denudation has concupiscent for another, a true gallant I would imagine. I hope he is everything she needs. It is the nature of love (or something as equally as encapsulating). It is the tormenting of my choices. It is the hole in my sock I cannot seem to allow myself to throw away.
Sometimes I feel as if she is unaware of her affect on me; she is a beacon of joy. But maybe I am not conscious of the inaffect I have on her. As much as I could give it my best again, the junction of two parties is necessary.
If it was not worth staying because it was no longer easy, then why is it worth staying away when it is hard? It will never be easy. A huge part of trying is just showing up, but one can’t get a degree by simply going to class. So quick to give it away, and so quick to shut it up. Come on honey, give it to me.
Comfort seems so unobtainable, but I will find my own way as sure as each day the sun raises.