Oh people. . . my life is like stale bread and old cheese. I mean, they can sustain one, but it is not the stuff of life (or is that "staff"?). Alone night after night, I have nothing to do but avoid thinking. Avoiding feeling, however, is an entirely different matter. Those letters, you know. . . they make me feel things. And in the morning, Mr. Fixit comes in fresh off whatever he is dealing with, and we talk. Oh, brother. Life is arduous.
Of all the thousand or so letters I have, I get a kick out of these most. "Kick" is not the right word. The word is too dismissive. These letters are simply pure emotion. What can I say? One can argue with intellect. I've done it my entire adult life. But the way someone feels about things? It is like trying to grab a lightning bolt.
And yet. . . and yet. . . I wish I could have been there with her for the intellectual journey. Why wasn't I?
As I say, I try to avoid thinking at night, but you know how that goes. Everything gets tangled up and the mind won't stop. I try to. I do my best to narcotize it each night, but then thought only bleeds into what I am feeling, and the emotional me kicks the shit out of the intellectual me.
"The heart wants what the heart wants. . . ."
I realize I was happiest just sitting beside her. I felt safe. Oh, not Emily. Ili. I didn't really care where we were. I just wanted to sit by her. That is where I felt best. She was smart, you know. But we laughed like idiots. I didn't care where we were at all. It didn't matter. I just knew that things were o.k.
Until they weren't.
It is 8:30 on a Saturday night. I'm already too deep into the scotch and it is having its effect. My mind is going stupid. I've put on some Kathleen Edwards music and can only think through her lyrics, but mostly I just feel the music, the subtle shifts in instruments, the hollow emptiness between notes, the quiet harmonies. Writing becomes impossible.
"Do ya love me?"
I am done for the night. My mind has shut off. I will drift now, drift with the music and the emotions and memories. Mr. Fixit will be here before you know it. Another day in Paradise.
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