Why is saving someone so appealing? Saving someone is like opening their life to a life you imagine is full of everything, full of you, full of nous. But saving someone means you can’t hold onto them. That’s not how it works.
You know that moment when you meet someone and then all of your time opens up? How does that happen? What was the time full of before? As easy as time comes, when that someone leaves, time also punishes you with gaping holes that you can’t seem to fill with anything that works. Everything you do is just a distraction, a physical distraction to the scenes in your mind, replaying moments, finding new moments to remember, to torture you with.
The honesty sheath has come back in my life. Things brought back from previous summers overjoy and sadden me. The intertextuality of all of my summers exponentially bifurcating. Every year is more sentimental than the next, having more summer memories to work into the new summer’s narrative(s). It makes me dizzy.
I should spend my time emailing people back that aren’t part of school or work, but people that I leave behind because they’re not “time sensitive” but want to talk to more than anything. I’ve been in Montreal for almost a year. I am lonely. I wish I was able to do “regular” things like going to a bar to have a beer or going for coffee or hanging out at someone’s house while everyone smokes and dies. Because that is what people I meet invite me to do, but I can’t, I just can’t. Those situations just create larger gaping holes in my/the container, but the kind that promote a dull ache everywhere. I want to spend my time listening to jungle, outside on a bike, in a lake, in bushes, with animals, in secret deep wells in the city, hiding in books someone is reading out loud to me!
Hi! Do you know my dear friend Barry (Boxcutter) released an album under the name The Host? You should listen to it, it’s good for moments like these. It fills you up softly.
I started belly dancing classes last week. Move, move, move. The instructor is this glowing blonde woman named Inka, and I get lost in staring at her and her full and energetic movements. She moves without having to move. She reminds me of that Miranda July quote I posted before, “I could not make a move without making love.“