“The terrible fluidity of self-revelation.” ~ Henry James

Few days ago, I caught fire thinking about you.

That was pillar, right? Sparks that only a fellow writer could trigger are always pillars. Something to hold on to and elaborate until you grace me again with your presence. Then what? Foundation? Walls? Windows? The love of writing? Obviously. The trust in everydayness? Yes. The simplicity of being? Always.

There were so many complex ideas that poured in too; about society and culture and quagmires like that. I couldn't go there. I wanted to make love to a table. With a table. On a table. Based on that love around a mere a table, couldn't we reach other planes of writing too?

I wanted to love.

I want to talk love. Because that's the butter that is making my day so fluid. I had an awesome day. No arguments. Got my hurdles figured out. I felt hopeful, concentrated.

I sincerely believed that, “Oh this discomfort is not going to last. Everything is going to be alright again.” And I was right. Everything was fine again.

Everything was awesome, actually. Because after that, you and I talked about the things we loved. We talked about writing. About feelings and that it ain't cute. About distances and sleepy hugs.

And you called my name.


You called my name in a voice that only a long, long illness of nostalgia could have honed. (Nostalgia for what? For whom?) Your voice dressed me in mist and morning and mindfulness. Reminding me that - if not everything, then that very moment - was going to be fine. That, even if we didn't have forever, you won't betray me that moment whence you loved and called me from the depths of your awareness.

You gave me that moment. Fully. Openly. Systematically taking all that I had offered in return.

(Who in his right mind would do that, call my true name with so much reverence?)

Isn't that love? A form of love? A love that is true and irrefutable because, if only for that moment (and a moment could last forever,) it was true. What are great big words and promises without series of little moments like that?


I'm thick with failures. I've traveled too far, feared too deep and worried too much. But when I was there and you cared to attend, when we chose to be present for each other, I breathed in relief.

I got to let my failures take a break from infesting my fields of thought and take a long hike to Uranus. Or somewhere as far. 

And the good news is that anyone, anyone who cares enough to pause and attend anything she deemed worthy of even a smidge of love, could take that break too.

And breathe in the fluid relief of self-acceptance.

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