I am listening to imogen heap and having a mini panic attack. I read through all the letters I had tucked away in clear protective sheets in my binder the other night, laughing and crying a little bit. I feel am immense sense of guilt and grief over all of this, dramatic I know. It was an idea and it was so very good on paper, so romantic.
Reality is not romantic.
Reality is full of changes and excuses and Michael Wild, reality can be beautiful but also very complicated and messy.
Love letters are not complicated. Ideas are not messy.
Ideas fit nicely into plastic protective sleeves and stay perfectly intact and ready to remind me, bring me back to a different time. Ideas don't ask me to explain, make eye contact and admit anything.
Ideas are not messy.
I know the hint was caught after a year plus of not writing, not responding but now, in just a few days there will be an actual face and body and eyes to look at, make contact with and I don't know if I am ready for all that. Am I making sense? I am overreacting and more than willing to admit that but I feel weird, anxious, panicked. We'll see that happens I guess.
1 comment:
i loved this post. i understood every word.
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