i should be grateful for anything that makes me write, anything that bubbles and froths so forcefully up through my throat that i have to put it on paper. i am struck by memories, a different set of beginnings, the gifts of doctrine and confusion and desire that he gave me. here and now i feel i am choosing a different path-- trying to consciously direct myself away from previous paths, lessons i should have learned-- making decisions on personalities and people and a possibility i might not have allowed previously. whether this is right or wrong, learning or denying, remains to be seen. (i must not let it all hinge on any one other person.) will i still fit into my own skin, at the end of this? is it better if i don't? one of the biggest things i like about you is your understanding of the trials of starting over-- repeatedly-- of migrating, of stationlessness, of distance and solitude and independence. i could never have explained but perhaps, with you, i might try to articulate...
on some level you are on paper what i might have put together as desirable. i don't know what, if anything, this will look like in future weeks but i am glad at the chance of seeing what screening by resume results in. and even, i suppose, the chance of seeing what doing a complete 180 might be like. it feels strange to feel hope. i think-- don't tell, don't breathe, don't move-- i might even have a crush. years, okay year, since i felt this way, and i have not forgotten what i did to slake this thirst last time. i hope i am less awful, this time around.