I miss you. Three words. Strong words, and a truth hurling deep inside. I saw your picture today and remembered your gone. I missed you today and that's fine.
What is the book inside me? What are the pages waiting to be set? The ink of the text falls flat until my eyes become heavy or my energy is dry. I'm looking for something that's not there. I'm writing invisible lines just to keep going. None of this seems with a concrete purpose; none of it appears to come from anywhere beyond my fingers.
August isn't always great and this year is similar. A move. A first house purchase. A totaled car (or three in the family). A new job. An online class I started late. September seems to be much better (coming from one that can't stay put in the present). A four in the ninth month, a question of sanity. Still, people trust me. They come to me with questions. I'm not sure where any of this is going, but I hope for hands to hold.
Codependency, interdependence, and intimacy. What a combination, really. A heart, a head, and a hand. Like three people directing a show. Three madmen leading the tour. Is it worth following these men? Where are they leading us? Will they help us find our way?
And I do not want imitations of myself. I don't want clones or colonies. I want empowerment of others. I want vigor and valor from timidity and turbulence. I want the disdained to learn to trust, the fearful to learn to fly, and the lonely to know the embrace of a true and requited love. I do not want for myself. Yes, I will need headwaters to keep this stream going, but largely I just want to flow into others. Water rushing, flowing downstream into new life.
