Someone asked me today what do I write about on this blog. “Death, life, love, sex, envy, pride, lust, what?” they said. It got me thinking for a while, and I wondered why isn’t that I am writing about death, sex, envy, pride, and lust, even? Maybe, in some ways, I am, but am I really writing about all this with the honesty and ferocity I should be?
It’s so easy to second-guess our life, to view it from someone else’s lens, to chip away at all the hard work everyday living takes, and yet we do it no matter what is hard, what is unjust, what is broken. You know? We must give ourselves more credit than we do. Unless of course, we’re self-absorbed assholes. Then, we must stop thinking the world revolves around us.
In all honesty, I wanted this new blog post to be about love. I did.
I wanted to write about the four-letter actionable word and the small things people do that just blows my mind. How they remember your favourite food and get it for you without occasion. How they will loathe to do something and yet do it because you want to do it together. How they will remember something you said. How they will know exactly what you would do/say. That kind, you know? That unrecognised kind of love, the underrated love that is sewed inside the sinews of routine days. I am tending to believe that within the chaos of life, the consistency of people provides comfort.
[Isn’t that the kind of thing Celine from Before Sunrise would say? Isn’t that an opening for Jesse to chime in and maybe even be goofy about it? Goofy is nice, isn’t it?]
But I don’t want to write about love anymore. I don’t want to write about death or sex or lust. Not at this time. I want to write about the unchanging nature of life unless it’s not the same anymore. About the not-sweeping-change-of-days. About the grist and the mill. I want to write about the prosaic with poetry. I hope that the words are somewhere inside me and I just have to find them.