Pants off to the bloggers who write each day, and write well. Me, can’t seem to muster the muse as often as I'd like lately, or at least do it eloquently. There’s laundry to do, no groceries in the ‘fridge. My toes are a mess. Deadlines roaring up and past.
I could write of 16 weeks without a warm, musky neck to burrow into and inhale, about the frustration of seeking a man who's drawer-worthy and the desire for more than casual, for mutual respect long past the next day. And having no clue how to go about getting there. I missed the "Real Relationships 101" lecture; must have been out sick that day.
Been on my mind lately how the truth won't necessarily set you free as much as muddy the view and require you clean it all up with a Shop-Vac. I could sigh about growing weary of (still) absorbing others frustrations in me.
Maybe I should adopt a dog. Dogs are wholly unconditional.
I want to explode and share prose of the joy of spring, the new sniffle and cough that reacts to budding spores and nature’s chemicals heating up, swirling in the air. Tiny blades of grass are poking through, and the windows are open most days. Renewal and rebirth, cleans out so many of the cobwebs.
I’m an exhibitionist, not a tits out exhibitionist (so much anymore) but want to talk as a truth teller. My own is easy, ask anything; the answer may not completely satiate but filters do little good and secrets merely kill slowly. I chose to let it out with abandon, like a feral cat who eats to the point of sickness because it doesn’t know when another meal is coming.
I could bemoan in my words how I’m tired of explaining myself, that if you want to hear me, just listen. I’ve discovered how to ask for help - I help define you, you help define me. That's friendship and beyond.
I’m Tommy. See me, feel me, touch me heal me.
There's a blog in me about how the truth shouldn’t be an excuse for bad behavior, or honesty an invitation to create chaos from the past, but rather a fleeting opportunity to embrace something better.
Maybe I really don’t know how to be a friend or a girlfriend, or a mother or a wife. Maybe something was damaged too long ago in too awful a fashion. Conflict often makes me turn and run and few have been strong or interested or loving or self-aware enough to come after me. That I don't know how to express, and that's what I want the most. Not only the courage to stay, but the knowing if I go, I won’t go off alone.
Because I’m worth getting a little breathless for. Too.
If only I could muster the words to write all of that.