Tumble dier

In which our Hero scrabbles behind him for a well-inked sword

I feel like a snow-globe that’s been dropped down the stairs. A little of everything is astir inside me and despite tremendous progress I still feel the weight of everything overhanging me. There’s no shortage of things to talk about, just no time, no time with quiet and energy.

Can’t believe I wrote about the wedding and missed so much, I must have been really tired when I wrote that.

I’ve been thinking about my grandmother. I’ve been thinking of how much I love her, how much I wish I could spend some time with her, and how much I suck for avoiding contact with her because my inability to speak better than a baby makes me embarrassed and shy. I’m tired of saying “I’m not sure, soon” when she asks when I’m coming to see her, because I just don’t feel at ease. I feel like a disruption when I go there, like dead weight. I love the place, I love the people, and I wish I fit in. I mean, I do, but, I wish I fit in.

I’ve been thinking about my parents who are getting past older and into old. About what I’ll regret when they’re gone and how much I suck at doing things differently to avoid those regrets.

What if I was better at expressing kind? She-who-must-not-be-named is kind. I wish sometimes I was kind like her.

I got nothing to really say. There’s too much, too much, for words, for a story. Hell, when’s the last time I told a story anyway. Lately I just talk about stuff that happened, and the light goes out of my diary the way the life feels like it ebbs from this place as people find new homes.

But they’re happy, and well. Or at least living and well. I peek in on old friends and they laugh and cry in their own spaces and I smile and love them a little before slipping away as quietly as I came in.

On the day after
our yesterdays are reborn
as they day before
—Gwai