The wolf at the door
Lately I feel a little superficial and don't trust my own words, as I've said here before. When I write these very logical little snippets about Lane, I feel like I'm ignoring something inside me by sharing details in such a bland way, and I'm searching to find my voice in the middle of it.
Colt has been researching the Dogon and the ancient egyptian calendar and yesterday he told me he thinks he's probably "bat-shit insane" but that it's probably not as unique as he once believed. In the dark, I was scared of him for this, but in the light I realize I miss this part of myself. When it's all work, all specifics, all laid out in clean pieces, there isn't enough "bat-shit insanity" to make me feel at home.
I realized last night, talking in bed with my body falling down into the sheets and eyes closing, that there has only been one period in my life where I have had NO FEAR. It was in the months that followed my dad's death. I wasn't afraid of being alone, of home break-ins, tornadoes, dying, the dark, speaking my mind, leaving a relationship, leaving the country alone, loving someone kind of crazy, being honest with my sexual desires, writing where everyone could see, spending money, sleeping. I wasn't afraid of anything at all and I lived my most honest life, unencumbered by what other people would think or what I might lose.
Losing a loved one makes every other loss feel inconsequential for a while.
As time has healed the immediate pain it has also brought back a lot of that fear.
For my soul, I've been searching for a site for a memorial for my dad since he doesn't have a burial plot or a place where his ashes rest, in hopes of resurrecting the truth-in-action I experienced then, in hopes of expelling my accumulated anxiety.
For my words, I've discovered a plethora of hidden writers, including North South Menology and have been so inspired -specifically by this absolutely beautiful photo post. I always feel a new sense of confidence when crossing digital paths with mirrors.