This could be fun: I just post random shit I've handwritten in my (other) journal. I mean, the last few posts have me depressed—a laugh riot for anyone reading, I’m sure—so why not a lark? Something fun, this blog was really meant to just reflect what I put down on paper, anyway. So, here we are.
I’ll stop when it’s no longer fun because, that’s how I roll.
An incomprehensible void, that’s all that remains. I wish it were not this way, this fathomless darkness.
The last time we spoke—there’s no reason to go there. Instead, let’s start with the beginning.
Archuleta County Fairgrounds main hall, you there representing PAWSD, me barely interested in what I was supposed to be covering but captivated by the smart, beautiful water district rep asking the best questions. The old white guys on stage were polite and light on the “little lady” shit, something you’d grown accustomed to in rural Colorado.
You lit up when I introduced myself, “I know your bylines. I look for them. You’re an excellent writer.” My own level of lit was immediately infinitely brazed with your words.
Our emails were chatty but deepened, then grew hot. Trapped in loveless marriages, both of us paired with sociopathic narcissists, we gently blew on each other’s coals to see if flames would emerge and grow.
That fire, OMG. Our first kiss in your work truck, windows fogged, parked behind Pagosa Bar because, that place, who the fuck would care?
I have never loved anyone as completely and deeply as I love you. No one has ever touched me as profoundly as you have.
I know the universe—the multiverse—called me to you.
That was 8/8/23, my first handwritten journal entry, a bunch more left out because I already blogged it.
8/9/23 didn’t bring much relief:
It’s suffocating to not know where you are, how you, what you are. Loss of you paralyzes me at three a.m.
The confluence is too uncanny, too many signs that can’t be ignored. Only you could make me this woo-woo.
Bahiaxela for some reason.
When I searched Gmail for your name, there were zero results. But when I searched “I love you,” I found a bunch of your emails, our love splashed out in whatever spaces we occupied over a couple of years.
Apparently, those two years were enough to convince me now that this manifesting thing is a good idea.
August 9 ends with speculation regarding numbers I found on the internet.
Yeah, no fun.