It is not too often that I am stunned at what it takes for me to open a blank page, but this is one of those moments. I have been awake for 22 hours, and worked for 17 of them. I should be asleep but am loathe to let pass the chance of finally putting thoughts (and feelings) into words. I am also, of course, loathe to go through the process of articulation – measured articulation, perhaps, this time, and loathe to come back and read what I am certain will end up an inaccurate and inadequate attempt.
It is also not too often that I am relatively content with how I manage my feelings, but until about a week ago, I think I was. Age has lent a rationality that I could use to temper the decided madness with which I approach a lot of life, but I rarely do. This time was different. Context, perhaps, forced the mind, and as did, maybe, the strength of the curious desire that I will not admit to having.
It is, on the other hand, very often that I disappoint myself, and this is no exception. The rationality that was, for once, not theoretical, is becoming increasingly so. All the things that I understood a week ago, I no longer seem to, as the weight of my want swells upon my chest. This spectrum that I slip and slide on has its sweeter – perhaps bittersweeter – spots, such as when I found myself a few days ago stubbornly looking in an unsuited market for an object that would fit the conception I had settled upon, simply because it made me excited to think that the surprise might, just maybe might, make you smile. That moment as I walked into the tenth store when I realized what I was doing was scary and exciting and full of the hope that I could make you happy. My heart raced in the fear of what you’d think if you knew and the joy of wanting to do it anyway.
But on the whole, this spectrum tends to pull me to one side, and I cannot fathom how I could leave the rationality that allowed me to be happy, both with circumstance and with myself for being rational, and find my way to the madness that certainly feels – really just feels – more, but also sparks agony. I do not understand myself; then how can I expect you to?
I close my tired eyes to violent images, wishing that you’d want to hold and comfort me as I want to hold and comfort you.