Correspondence

We are almost 30, Peter. How did that happen? Perhaps this is why our fire cools, our inspiration goes lacking. Or is that merely a poor excuse? I don't know any more. I who used to have so many answers.

I carry a headache with me everywhere I go, lately. I never had headaches before. I cannot sleep at night, and toss between watching tragic television shows on my computer and journalling endless pages of regret and confusion, until I pass out. Morning comes too quickly, I am perpetually a step behind. I cannot wait for January and America, even as it terrifies me, how quickly time passes, and how come January 1, I no longer have an apartment, nor an office. I start all over. It might mean I am free to go anywhere again, do anything. But I don't know where to go, anyways, so it hardly helps me. Am I living in Stockholm, now?

Every day is such a mad roller coaster. The highs convince me I can do anything, take on the world, have come such a long way and will make it through this bit, too. The lows drag me through strange streets I never loved and remind me only of my worthlessness and the futility of my actions. Better then, to give up and move on. Get a job, get a life.

I know it would be good for my mental health to get a job and a stable life. I know that. I have therapy bills to prove it. No matter, Peter, it is not what I want. I know I will push myself into the ground, I will look back on a life lived in such sorrow, but God, is it not better to be sad and free, to be overwhelmed with emotion, rather than complacent and restrained, underwhelmed and numb? Surely, I knew all along this was my life. I spent years after my grad school degree unraveling all the stability I'd created. I wanted none of it. I feared therapy had softened my madness, had taken my inspiration from me. I am not, without these demons, and I missed them. I have no choice but to bring them along.

Tail Spin

Back at the apartment, there is no falling asleep. The headache returns. Business as usual, and I don't know what it's trying to tell me. The afternoon escalated into playdates and friends from yore, all bringing babies and discussions on house buying. The little town remains, safe for another generation. By the time I packed up, my head was spinning.

Quick stop at the other end of the pendulum and they were already downing shots of Jack Daniels; I was not late in joining. Some sorrow to drown, some victory to celebrate, no matter. I had forgotten what it was like to be with people who spoke my language, to be with people in whose eyes I had talent of any use. He walked me to the train and told me all the hidden things when it was too late. I had to stand inside the train to listen, so it would not leave without me. Spent three hours trying to focus my eyes and passing out just before the call for Stockholm Central.

This is a long life, and confusing. We hold on, that the train does not leave without us. That we are not left on the platform, bags in hand, spring in our step and nowhere to go. We hold on, because one day we will be glad we did.

Knowns

When the alarm rang, it was still night. I gathered things and fell down the hill to the subway, and the streets were empty. Mornings are not my thing, but for a two-dollar train ticket, I was willing to go. For a moment's respite, I would sacrifice a hundred mornings, after all.

The sun rose quietly over the city of my childhood as the train rolled in. Past the lake where we'd swim on late drunk nights before heading home. Over the bridge past that apartment house where we went that one New Year's Eve that was the coldest in history, and I still remember your hands inside my shirt. The sun lit up the church steeple, the river delta, the town square. I didn't fear the city today. I have realized no one remembers my face, I am safe. And it's a pretty enough place, for a stranger.

Later, I sat with that child in my arms as she fell asleep, and I had gotten exactly what I came for. Just a day, a moment's rest. Where there is no Stockholm, no New York, no uncertainty, no poverty, no weary limbs. There is only a baby as dear as were she your own blood, a season that follows tradition to a t, and a world where nothing surprises, nothing alarms. It is harmless, it is safe. It is everything I've left behind.

How the sleep, tonight, will be sweet.

Controlled Breathing

It's a mad race lately, I don't sleep, I can't see further in front of me than my own hand and I am glad. Run, Run, as fast as you can, as it were. Do you remember that time, years ago now, it was St. Lucia and I hadn't eaten or slept in days, I was running on adrenaline and empoverished ecstasy, there was a ticket to a flight in the morning, I didn't sleep. We stood in a corner of the kitchen, the apartment was full, I thought this city is so beautiful in the dark and you looked at me with those eyes, that was years ago.

The music moved me tonight but I only heard your sorrows in her words, it made me uneasy. I forgot to clap, I forgot to look, I was elsewhere. You were right there.

Right there.

I need a ticket, now. Only leaving, will make this all right.

In Somnia

The hours passed so quickly last night, my eyes wide awake and restless. But the minutes turned to words, the restlessness turned to fervor, and by the time the clock passed morning, my head was swimming but my heart racing. Mere hours passed before it was time to rise again; the day stretched impossibly long ahead. Still, all day my heart was light, work a joy. Evening came with heavy lids and yet here I am, again, awake and relentlessly sprightly.

I will not question the energy, from where it comes. I will not question the light heart, the moment's rest. The winter is long, and dark, and unending. Every burst of energy is a treat to be savored.

Even if the night finds me sleepless, again.

On Giving Thanks.

I went away, I promised I would not return until other words were finished, other pages closed, but I cannot. I forget how it's done, but I know something is missing; the days pass without processing, without ink, I am lost. I forget how this is done, forgive me. How have you been? I missed you.

At dinner, last night, the abundance of food, we move but carry our ways with us, I was glad for the company. Last year how overwhelmed with gratitude, with the impossibility of such a reality. I made no list this year. So much for which to be grateful, and yet. Last year, I loved New York and that was all that mattered. I thought we were made for each other. I thought that was all that mattered.

Eight years pass so quickly, but how painfully, how slowly they end. I don't want to leave this apartment, she said. This is my home. Eight years pass; they can only end in heartache.

I thought we were made for each other.
I thought that was all that mattered.
Now I don't know who I am, without you.

Intermezzo

(There is a ticket, with my name on it, headed for New York. It comes with a return ticket, an end date. It exhilarates me to think I will soon enough walk those streets. Suddenly, how close the City again, how real.

It terrifies me to realize how short lived the joy. To realize that I willingly tear every single one of those stitches, cut open those burning scars, let myself bleed for mere hours of breathing my City, sleeping calm in its steady beat. My pulse races, my skin is warm to the touch, I long to see you.

It already hurts so much, to leave you again.)