There's a Bear Inside Your Stomach

Some days I think I’m finally hitting my stride out here. I wake up, go to work, go to the gym and get a good night’s rest. I feed myself three meals a day. I smoke half a clove cigar after dinner each night. I read articles about politics and social movements. I pay my bills on time. I want to buy a house and host dinner parties on the weekend. I want to be a penguin.   

This isn’t how I pictured my life. Five years ago I imagined myself renting a studio apartment Somewhere surrounded by a group of lovably eclectic weirdos. People with strange music preferences, secondhand clothes and Dreams that they worked hard to keep alive. I always pictured myself hungry. Hungry for experiences, for conversation, for one more story. Hungry because I blew my last $5 on a composition notebook and a pack of blue pens.

One thing I’ve learned to expect from myself is the negation of all expectation. I crave routine and security. I can’t stand limitations and restraints. I want to love and give entirely without losing myself. I want to experience a new eternity every second.

I shuttle between worrying whether I matter at all

and whether anything else matters at all but me.

-Stephen Fry, Moab is my Washpot

I’m navigating the difference between trying not to die, and not trying to die.

I don’t think you realize how much I miss you. You’re not my bookends; you’re the whole goddamn library. You don’t stay in the back of my mind. You’re front and center, a constant nagging absence. I superimpose you onto the porches of the houses I pass.  I imagine you drinking coffee next to me in the café on Hawthorne. I imagine you smoking cigarettes at dusk, standing on the bridge while commuters start their slow crawl home. I imagine you telling me about your day. I imagine telling you about mine. Every word I write is meant for you.

I deleted every incarnation of our friendship. I erased your number from my phone. I hid your pictures. The mood rings stay in a sealed envelope under my mattress. I don’t cook curry, or listen to Stars, or watch Chopped. I flinch every time I see a silver Volkswagon. I write you letters. I tie them to balloon strings, and hope somebody somewhere someday finds them. At night I lie in my bed and beg you to call me. I imagine buying a plane ticket, showing up on your porch. I narrate our conversations, and they all end with the word “Home”.

What I’m trying to say is I love you.

You are tired,

(I think)

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

Come with me, then,

And we’ll leave it far and far away—

(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and—

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like,

The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!

I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I’ll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probably stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,

Until I find the Only Flower,

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea

e.e. cummings

When I hurt my knee, your mother said you were finally my literal crutch and not just a figurative one. I never meant for this to happen. I don’t know if or how you think of me. I don’t know if you’ll read this and laugh, or cry, or if you’ll read it at all. But it’s said now, and I don’t regret saying it.  

Many miles of love.

-b