Words

We started arguing, then stopped. Because we've gone down that road before and want to avoid it in the future. It's not fun at all. That's not how we want to be with each other. It is best to wait until gut reactions have been digested into sentient thoughts that we can express calmly. We're learning. But I still feel stupid. Because I get eaten by jealousy every day and melt into tears every night. Because every distraction leads me in the same direction.

My only remaining defense is to run away. Literally. To leave town and never look back; to lose touch. To turn all this into a grey memory of one of the many places I used to live. Berthoud. Allenspark. Boulder. Fort Collins. Asheville. Alvin. Conroe. San Diego. Where should I go next? I know where I want to go. Where I could be happy because I am away from everything and everyone and surrounded by nothing but warm water and greenery. A foreign domestic land. Small town. Small scale. Simple.

That's the main draw I see with being a writer. Not that I really ever aspired to be one, but I always thought the great thing about it would be that you can isolate and insulate yourself from the world. As long as you keep writing. There is no commute, no co-workers, no time clock, no bosses. Only you and the alphabet. Twenty-six letters to keep you company, to keep your imagination greased. And those letters can go anywhere. They pack up in your head quite nicely, as long as you can sort them out again once you need them. The only problem with this fantasy is that I'm not really a writer. When I unpack the letters, they come out all wrinkly and incomprehensible. Just ask any man I've ever tried to communicate with. They'll tell you how I clumsily end my sentences with prepositions and repeat myself and contradict myself and interject random words like "ouch" and "what" and "like".

And how on some days, like today, the words fly out of me before I'm ready. Like ninja words, they have the sharp edges of a silver star and their only purpose is to cut. And the barrage is nearly always returned. Twice as sharp. I don't want any words being flung from me before they've been fully inspected for flaws and faulty edges, but unfortunately, my heart overloads my brain and shuns the careful word scrutiny all that grey matter is so meticulous about. Words. Just that. Beating paths to the same places.