Just woke up from three dreams. The third one was a runt, and irrelevant. Residual, and I barely am grasping at its threads even now.
But there are minor triumphs. And pitfalls.
I do not know how it's going to go. There are ideas washing in my head. Rinsing, yes. Equally good dreams, but only by comparison to the terrible gasping and late night phone calls.
My voice, grasping in the dark for a counterpoint.
I've said this many times: I wish I didn't have the need, the desire for completion, for a body, for anything, anything which I could not provide for myself. It seems so regressive after all the years of learning independence and self-sufficiency.
But I love it. I love the feeling of having let go entirely to another person--to be at once nested and wholly free. It's a freed stillness where I do not exist but am renewed all at the same time.
Yes, I dare agree: it is a sublime.
I do not want to be wounded. And I think I've succeeded, for the most part, over and over again, to not lose the ridiculous optimism which drives me. I scoff usually, and call it ambition, but it's a voracity for everything that feels right. I deserve that.
Love is tricky; it's not love I've been dragging, but dependency, attachment--the asymptote leaning closer to the wire.
It doesn't, shouldn't have to be that way. I know this.
There are years and years yet ahead, and I want to look for mittens.
