Heads up: some dead thoughts, but they’re honest. And goddamn, if I can’t be honest here then I might as well kid myself and go blog about puppies and sunshine. Nothing wrong with that, of course, except for the fact that I’d be walking right through an empty truth: you can’t love the light without a little taste of darkness.
So I’ve just had the most unsettling, irreverent, fantastic, real night in a while, all because of this darn book of collected poems (damn you Stanford and your honest to god words). It was worth the wait. I haven’t felt this way since the first time I sat down with Carrie and Lowell, since the first time I read Rilke, since the first time I saw lightning flood across a darkened field. I think I finally feel it. Dying. I think I’m dying—not my body, but this feeling. This face to face conversation. But it’s not so bad, because I know I’m a long way from acceptance. I have things to live for. I have people to hold onto. I have people I love. That’s enough.