The theme was Beginnings and Endings, and it invaded every nook and cranny of the day and evening...
I felt as nervous as I did a year ago, but for entirely different reasons... I felt sick from the passive-aggressive insults from the night before, yet almost impossibly drawn to them and the pointless desire that it might be more than just that... and both excited and terrified about the subtle flirtation emanating from the chair next to me in some random nonprofit in the Tenderloin.
I remembered making the decision and making the call-- my heart beating out of control with fear and conviction one year prior, from an overly bright apartment in the Castro.
You asked if maybe I didn't love you anymore, and I told you no, but knew your wouldn't believe me. You were already concocting excuses and reasons, all to avoid any responsibility in the matter.
One year passed and I hardly recognize my life or myself.
It's almost like someone hit a switch. Part of me wishes I knew where the swtich was or is.... Perhaps it's one of the two mystery switches at my door, or maybe it's like the bedroom switch, only sporadically working to my frustration.
Or Maybe that's just how it goes with me.
Beginnings become endings, often more quickly than I would hope... Endings become beginnings sporadically; and I never can figure out why or how...
Instead, I try to just sit with the fear and excitement of beginnings and endings, endings and beginnings... swtiching the switches in a futile attempt to understand... utterly failing and succeeding, at the beginnings and endings of it all.
I felt as nervous as I did a year ago, but for entirely different reasons... I felt sick from the passive-aggressive insults from the night before, yet almost impossibly drawn to them and the pointless desire that it might be more than just that... and both excited and terrified about the subtle flirtation emanating from the chair next to me in some random nonprofit in the Tenderloin.
I remembered making the decision and making the call-- my heart beating out of control with fear and conviction one year prior, from an overly bright apartment in the Castro.
You asked if maybe I didn't love you anymore, and I told you no, but knew your wouldn't believe me. You were already concocting excuses and reasons, all to avoid any responsibility in the matter.
One year passed and I hardly recognize my life or myself.
It's almost like someone hit a switch. Part of me wishes I knew where the swtich was or is.... Perhaps it's one of the two mystery switches at my door, or maybe it's like the bedroom switch, only sporadically working to my frustration.
Or Maybe that's just how it goes with me.
Beginnings become endings, often more quickly than I would hope... Endings become beginnings sporadically; and I never can figure out why or how...
Instead, I try to just sit with the fear and excitement of beginnings and endings, endings and beginnings... swtiching the switches in a futile attempt to understand... utterly failing and succeeding, at the beginnings and endings of it all.
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