Attempts at finding sanctuary thwarted by sundry fish fries and baptisms, I couldn't bring myself to mumble along with the faithful and made an exit halfway through the mass at some church I'd never seen the inside of before, ended up at the usual coffeeshop haunt with a journal and the laptop and tea now alone here.
My eyes tired and soul restless, scrawling letters to God in ink... adoration and questions and longing that barely makes sense when it hits the page, but to be known better than to know myself is a reassuring thing.
I could be out and among, but sometimes the solitude feels like the best place to exist, that place of safety. There's a part of me that fears closeness, because of all the bridges that seem to get burned in ways I can't explain, knowing that the last few times I was less wrong than I've been before, but knowing that there's still ash where connecting once was, that this is just part of life, and at least there is no bitterness on my end, learning to accept that as much as I long to make things right, to begin again, that there are endings, and I wonder how many more times things like this will happen.
I don't even want to begin sometimes because the ending seems so inevitable and when he calls up out of the blue saying we should hang out again, I hope that we don't because even though nothing's started, I just don't want it to go anywhere. It was hard enough watching things fall apart with people I lived with, I sure as hell don't want to get my heart torn up over nothing. I'm a bundle of raw nerves with a hemorrhaging heart and a soul that's equal parts wide-eyed wonder and cynicism. It's easier to watch from afar.
Is the lack of feeling a thicker skin or an emotional amputation? I wish I knew.