colors

Today I was surfing Pinterest, looking for some inspiration for my story.

I found a few things (unfortunately most of the writing is going on in my subconscious, at least for now) and went to save them to the appropriately named board. I don't really use Pinterest much, so most of the stuff I have saved is pretty old. However.

I found the secret wedding board I made years ago, about two or three years ago after he and I got together. I knew the odds weren't really in my favor, but give me a break, I have a vagina. After about five years I abandoned it because I knew the chances were less than nil, so I forgot about it, or maybe I just buried the knowledge of it. But I never deleted it. I guess I wasn't ready to give up hope.

It never ceases to amaze me that the life of someone I shared ten years with is now utterly uncomprehensible to me, as remote as the lives of sherpas in Nepal, or loli girls in Japan. Saddest goddamn thing about it is that it was ten years, and somehow it just dissolved into the ether, like it ceased to matter at all, though I know it does matter, will always matter. I know people break up all the time, they grow apart, they cease speaking each other's language and just come to a point where they stare at each other in frustration, as if they knocked their heads together and suddenly one speaks pidgin Greek while the other only knows Farsi. It just seems like such a waste. Make no mistake, I still don't regret the decision we made, nor will I ever say I wasted ten years of my life with him, even towards the end. It is just utterly frustrating and depressing to know that all the work we put into each other, all the things we created...they'll be finished by someone else, and all we gave to each other will now be reinvested and reinvented in the love of said person. It all makes me feel as if I am, or will be, I don't know, rather...recycled. I know that it's just the way life works and that's only one way to look at it, but I don't know how people divorce after twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years together. Here I am at ten and the idea of doing it all over just to end up this way again is enough for me to want to give up on the entire fucking shitshow.

But I can't.

Because one of these days Jack's going to die and I'm going to be in here all alone and I'm made of pretty tough stuff, but the idea of coming home to my apartment with no other life form present is enough for me to want to risk the whole fucking thing over and over again.

In other news, I spent forty five minutes staring mindlessly at cooking clips on Instagram. There is something incredibly soothing about watching people mix things. I can sit still and do that dumb shit for that long but I can't seem to write a goddamn thing except this endless fucking bullshit.

I am ready for the weather to warm up enough to go swimming. Planning to call them tomorrow and see when they start selling keys for the pool. Ready for our Star Wars Day Tubing Trip. I still need to do a housewarming party, but not there yet. Every time I try to retreat into my hole, I have about ten million goddamn responsibilities and obligations that pop up like road construction. It's just as well. If I go in that hole I don't know if I'll come out. It feels like some invisible force is pushing me away from it. As for him, well, I know I could just pick up the phone and text him, but I don't want to get in the way of whatever process he's got going on. Would probably do more harm than good.

Breakfast for dinner tonight. Might eat it out on my porch; it feels fantastic outside.

Not going to delete the secret board.

There are things to look forward to.

Like paper towel hearts on pillows.