Dear me,
I don't have the emotional capacity for tough love today.
Even though that's been the only kind I've been capable of giving or receiving lately.
Maybe all my life.
Seven days later, and I want something soft.
A hug.
An ice cream.
Or just to lie on the wet grass outside.
Anything but the same mirror.
The same bed.
The same me.
Or the lecture stuck in my head.
What I really want is visual proof.
Usually this is where I choose the ice cream.
The proof doesn't take long after that.
It comes with avoiding the mirror as a side effect.
But am I actually choosing myself?
Or is the ice cream just a sweet lie that comforts me?
Maybe there have been too many "just one last times."
Maybe this needs to stop.
But the only thing that's consistent is the fear that nothing will change.I am forty, running out of time,
chasing a clock like a panicked rabbit.
I don't want guru books telling me what to feel.
Or podcasts telling me how to leave.
They only confuse me more.
Keeping me in the same cycle.
The same thoughts.
The same problem.
I don't need another explanation.
I need action.
I need music.
Another two fuck yous, seven days later.
One to the ice cream in the freezer.
One to the rain.
I put my earbuds on.
Middle finger to the fridge.
I just need to walk.
The rain feels different when you have music on.
Almost like it's speaking to you, if you choose to notice.
Maybe I'm trying to jump too fast from A to Z.
Maybe today...
Maybe this week...
A.1 is enough.
Maybe A.1 is choosing music over ice cream.
Dear me,
I love you.
Not because.
Just like that.
Out of the blue.
2Here.
Now.
On a Sunday.
In the rain.
In the middle of nowhere.
Alone.
I think I'm finally beginning to understand what it means to turn loneliness into profit.
Because becoming means nothing if it turns into pressure.
I am still so fucking far from clarity.
But today...
For the first time in a while...
I exhaled with relief.
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