Mr. November

I'm an idiot, by the way.

I thought I had lost the book I've been writing on and off for years completely (this would be the second or third time I've lost creative writing in crisis situations) and had resolved to give up. Maybe I'd do it as a comic, or even just dump the project altogether. But I'd forgotten somehow the fact that I had written many of the chapters by hand in a notebook that never left my bedroom. Sitting in bed doing my homework, I happened to look over at my book shelf and see the familiar cardboard cover of 100 pages of treasure. There're probably snippets missing here and there from where I continued to write once I had transcribed, but for the most part, along with the book chapters Lindsey sent me, my work remains in tact. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. Admittedly, I've been distracted.

Kati went off to reclaim her one true love this weekend. I must confess, I'm starting to think about my own future. I bottled and corked my emotions after a tough winter, tried to love again, failed, made a mess, and thought I was just better off not letting anyone in. But I'm opening like petals, too slowly to see but most surely. I've begun to wonder what kind of person would want to spend a lifetime with me. I don't mean marry me - I definitely don't mean have babies with me - I just want to know who would read by my side as I work into the late hours. Who would help me build a tree house. Who would want to wake up beside me in the morning, and who would still love me even when I'm old and faded.

Have I met that person yet? Are they right in front of my eyes? Did I have it, and lose it? Or are they still out there somewhere? Would I know it if I met them? When lovers know these things, how do they know? If it were hardwired in, we all wouldn't have such a problem with it. They say only 10% of the population can fall in love and stay in love for life. What if I'm not part of that 10%, or what if they aren't? And what if I am? I don't know which scares me more. I do know I don't want to spend my life alone. I know I want to be happy.

I spent a lot of time learning how to make myself happy without relying on anyone else, so I worry that I've precluded the need for a lover, in doing so damaging the mechanism that binds two human beings together. On the other hand, there are moments when I just feel fire. I know that passion I've felt before is still in there, I know I can feel, it's what I draw on when I write or sing. It composes me. And I could die for it.

I didn't mean to get so carried away with seriousness. I suppose that's what I get for stowing it away for so long. Since it's out now, though, maybe that means I won't need to bring it up again any time soon.