Friday, October 16, 2009
Lately time has been passing so slowly, yet I feel my age every day. I can feel myself sinking into the day by day monotony that I've worked so hard to avoid. I read too much. I read stories of fantastic love that lasts forever; I read murder mysteries; I read fantasy novels of vampires; I read historic fiction and how-to books. I read to escape. I am screaming inside for a bit of cultural stimulation. Yet nothing comes to hand. Little things. Little seconds of joy have become the definition of life for me. I live for the weekend or day I can spend with some good friends. I love the way your hand feels in mine when I hold it. I love sleeping next to you... I've missed it for four years. Riding on the subway back from a bar. I'm a bit buzzed and I'm sitting down next to a couple who are, of all things, reading. I try to catch pieces of sentences but I don't want to be found out so mostly I stare at the floor. You are standing above me talking to a friend and holding my hand at the same time. I feel everything in this little memory I've stored. The sway of the subway. The hard plastic seat with the awful carpet-like covering. The smell of too many people in too small a space. I feel so connected to everything in that moment, simply because I'm connected to you. And I feel safe. This breaks the monotony. A simple connection to someone or something. And I find that I crave and need it. To connect. It's strange and ironic that I can't be myself until I'm connected to something else. I've even taken up knitting because I need something to do with my hands and it wastes time during the days I'm not working. In a strange way I feel connected to the string because my hands are shaping the scarf or sock it will become. I hope someday I won't need any connection to survive. But for now it's all I have.