Most of my time is spent doing things I would never miss.  Responding to e-mails, navigating personal politics, vacant hours of entertainment, wearing a bra,  sitting at a desk, sitting in a meeting, sitting on a plane, sitting in a car.  Perpetrating the whitewashing of existence by buying into joy and sanity at all times at all expense. Every moment seems to be on the precipice of the next moment, but never really getting there.  

Too many of my thoughts are missing things I never really had.  A close girlfriend I would talk to almost every day.  Skin and hair and flesh I didn’t want to crawl out of.  Time off and away.    Enough money.   Passion.  Intellectual curiosity.  A child folded into my arms.  Actually wanting a fucking salad.  A perfect garden. Hardwood floors.  Being the object of desire.  Being at least as strong as I pretend to be or need to be.  Being able to eat something, anything, without it being fraught with failure or success or every hateful thought I have about myself.  Running fast and hard.  

But tonight I am missing they joys I have known.  

When I would get sad like this I would call my friend E.  Not sad for any reason, or not any recent reason anyway.  And he wouldn’t let me explain.  He would just say, “I know, sweetie, I know. It’s ok.  I know.” Over and over again until I caught my breath.  Until the pain of the shadows of hurt didn’t stab.  And I felt so understood and so loved.

When I would spend the night at my great grandmothers and she would get out the prettiest little bowls and put a bit of cherry ice cream in them – one for me and one for her.  And I hated the cherry ice cream.  But she loved it so much and we would take small spoonfuls.  And I was the universe and life was possibility.

My mom always waking before me and coaxing me awake so gently, and allowing me 15 more minutes.

My dad’s joy when one of his fireworks would do exactly what it was supposed to.

My little cat purring just for me – all my joys and sorrows of my childhood reflected in her animal eyes.

I am wondering if to be human means to feel so unknown.  I am expected to know so many answers and I know so few.  I am afraid of the sadness because I am afraid of the weakness.  I am afraid of writing what is my reality because I am afraid of the perception of selfishness.  So thank you for reading and allowing me to miss some things.

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