Dear Yum:
I am using you, I know, as a pleasure stimulus. A stimulant, if you will.
(and you do)
I realize theres no real incentive for me to even get my hopes up.Why does that not upset me? It is everpresent, like a slight crick in the neck in the middle of the night...but then I shift to a different position, and it's all new again. Comfortable and ready for the next time our feet touch down in the same space. At the same time.
I guess it's easy. I guess it's like a gift. Confessor 1 and Confessor 2 just gabbing, working it all out. Stringing words together and watching all the beauty go by, marking on the swirl of color in this birds' feathers, the streaks in that girls' hair, the cut of the boy's jeans.
In months previous, I knew a fellow penitent. We weren't as interactive or close. But our dance was similar. The problem, though, was he was so full of himself. A bit mean at times. Pitted me against other girls, all the while knowing he would never have me.
Our cameraderie must be a chocolate on my hotel pillow, with a note of apology from my lucky stars. Helping me heal that bottomless pit feeling. Super-Glue-ing the word "value" in glitter all across my walls. My heart. My house. My life.
So I thank you (genuflecting).
It's nice to have zero stakes for once. Not feel I'm competing in some dumb-ass race I never signed up for. Not to feel like I'm in the running but I still get all the good energy you radiate, all the sweetness and beauty that you are. Maybe that's why it's still okay, and I'm not having a tantrum.
I'm using this feelgood. Everything else in my life is crumbling. This acropolis down, that ampitheatre dilapidated, then you ring me up and I set to giggling all over again. Laughter meditation--I'm sure the sufis used it.
Yum, I have to tell you. It's a relief, in a sense. To be honest, I'm not one who's used to processing things all the way through, so it might be a tad bit melancholic. But I don't see that. What I do know, Yum, is you do bring me pleasure and joy and amusement and calm.
And wet.
Less of a loner somehow, when you're around. Yet still quite independent. I am trying my best not to hang up my coat in your house, or rest up too easy on your loveseat. Don't want to leave the shape of my indentation on your sofabed. I know I'm just keeping your body warm until your right fit comes along. I'm keeping the balance without doing any accounting.
It's tricky, but somehow it works.
Love,
Pippi
I am using you, I know, as a pleasure stimulus. A stimulant, if you will.
(and you do)
I realize theres no real incentive for me to even get my hopes up.Why does that not upset me? It is everpresent, like a slight crick in the neck in the middle of the night...but then I shift to a different position, and it's all new again. Comfortable and ready for the next time our feet touch down in the same space. At the same time.
I guess it's easy. I guess it's like a gift. Confessor 1 and Confessor 2 just gabbing, working it all out. Stringing words together and watching all the beauty go by, marking on the swirl of color in this birds' feathers, the streaks in that girls' hair, the cut of the boy's jeans.
In months previous, I knew a fellow penitent. We weren't as interactive or close. But our dance was similar. The problem, though, was he was so full of himself. A bit mean at times. Pitted me against other girls, all the while knowing he would never have me.
Our cameraderie must be a chocolate on my hotel pillow, with a note of apology from my lucky stars. Helping me heal that bottomless pit feeling. Super-Glue-ing the word "value" in glitter all across my walls. My heart. My house. My life.
So I thank you (genuflecting).
It's nice to have zero stakes for once. Not feel I'm competing in some dumb-ass race I never signed up for. Not to feel like I'm in the running but I still get all the good energy you radiate, all the sweetness and beauty that you are. Maybe that's why it's still okay, and I'm not having a tantrum.
I'm using this feelgood. Everything else in my life is crumbling. This acropolis down, that ampitheatre dilapidated, then you ring me up and I set to giggling all over again. Laughter meditation--I'm sure the sufis used it.
Yum, I have to tell you. It's a relief, in a sense. To be honest, I'm not one who's used to processing things all the way through, so it might be a tad bit melancholic. But I don't see that. What I do know, Yum, is you do bring me pleasure and joy and amusement and calm.
And wet.
Less of a loner somehow, when you're around. Yet still quite independent. I am trying my best not to hang up my coat in your house, or rest up too easy on your loveseat. Don't want to leave the shape of my indentation on your sofabed. I know I'm just keeping your body warm until your right fit comes along. I'm keeping the balance without doing any accounting.
It's tricky, but somehow it works.
Love,
Pippi
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and there are lots of tiny details that the camera doesn't show.
peas and love!