Healing, truth, peace. Those words seem act as a destination I’m heading towards but will likely never reach.
I know I'm not alone in this journey. Nor am I alone in feeling its limitlessness.
These days where I can feel more, specifically the leaving and loss from my distant past, are challenging. It’s this fluxing between staying long enough to make the connection between thought and emotion but not overdoing it either.
The rest of my life is focused on clearing out the other house, a constant evaluation of what things mean or do not mean to me.
This morning I woke wondering about some pieces of art that are large that I made a while back. I feel certain I do not want to part with them.
But we won't have room.
Last night I fell asleep to the stark reality of how short life feels, how strange it all is when you feel like you can take it in.
I want for this life to have meaning and value but my Not Gods I seem to fail over and over with this novelization of the Sandbox.
Yesterday I came up with a new idea but this morning I see that a lot of my ideas are process, and that this process continues to lead towards shrinking the Eileen piece.
If I am a turtle, I am seeing that the weight of her, and that experience, are not worth carrying on my back up this mountain I climb.
I’d written five thousand pages by the time I left her—another few thousand after I needed to heal her damage. Now…I can see and feel her as a nuisance more than anything else.
A big waste of time.
She now feels a lot to me like my obsession with S felt; someone I had these enormously powerful feelings for that were in no way earned or deserved.
Both women were teases; and both were conscious of it. Both wanted and needed what wasn’t really theirs to have but what I was unconsciously falling all over myself to give them: my attention, my love, my admiration.
With S it was only seven months.
With Eileen, it was years.
I feel relatively healed of these women.
Eileen and that crappy therapy no longer take up room.
With this room I now have, I continue to ask myself what is next.
And I seem to be without any answers, really. I cannot seem to find much hope or happiness these days. I just can’t. I can’t seem to leap onto a new chapter, a new bag of clay, a new something that gives me what I need.
What I am doing is packing. I am shedding, figuring out what I want to carry on this back of mine in my life moving forward. This is the only thing I want to do, the only direction I can go.
A lighter load leads to more clarity. In writing. And in life.