I wish we lived for a thousand years, so perhaps we’d have the time to do it right. 

It saddens me a bit to think of the inspiration for these posts becoming fewer and farther between. Sadder still, that they may not be read anymore; that it’ll just be my words and the vast, empty internet. 

Climbing into bed, I looked at your post card again. At first it read like a pleasant, yogic sentiment of some sort, but rereading the words “may you be free” resonated, and it now seems to be a wish that I (and you) be free of you and of this weight. That’s how it appears to me now. I’m poor at it but I’m working on it. 

I had just had a second meeting for a TV pilot that may shoot in Chicago. I felt pretty good about it, but you can never really tell. It wasn’t a “dicks in the dirt” feeling, but good enough. I’m in the mustang with the top down listening to tunes, and “I Come Running Back”comes on. At first it’s fun; a snappy tune that’s fun to drive to. Then your face lands smack dab in the middle of my mind, like some huge bug that hit the windshield and won’t get out of the center of my vision. I was being assaulted by memories and by your face. I must have looked like some crazy person because I literally yelled “fuck you” and had to change the song. Thin Lizzy may be ruined for me now. 

You know I’m scared to read my own posts?  I fear that like looking at you, it will hurt. Why are you still on my brain?  If we weren’t so far it would so so fu king easy to make it work one way or the other. 

The selfish part of me, though conflicted, wanted to see you, and was admittedly a bit bummed at misssing an opportunity to see you.  However, the part of me that hates to see you in pain and only wants the best for you, the larger part, knowing that seeing me may have made it a different experience, was truly happy that you met a guy and had a fun Mardi Gras sans moi.