Love

I was told today that whatever I did with my life, it had to involve writing. I have talent.
Thank you, there is no greater compliment for me.
Writing isn't an option for me.
I would not live if I couldn't write. Tisn't just the joy, the slyness, the love of words. I write because tis a necessity. My writing is perhaps the only place where I am uncompromising, dauntless, in complete faith. This is where I tear myself into pieces without fear. My writing doesn't allow me to mollycoddle myself. If I've been an ass, I can't write otherwise.

I met S today at the Store. Now that I've wanted him, touched him and separated from him in a sense...we have a strange relationship.
On my side, it involves almost constant pain. Wistfulness. He is such a barrage of names and dates. He cannot handle anything that isn't labelled and dated. And his self-absorption is....infuriating.
I cannot tell him this. He is touchy, sensitive to certain things. And in some obscure way, i represent unconditional understanding to him.
I see him as so much potential. But who am I to tell him he needs to grow. I have no resentments. Tis just sadness. This is the only relationship where my sadness is unmixed with anger or resentment. I can't make him into who I want him to be. We seldom touch, on any level. Tis rare, but sure. We don't know each other's everyday business, but he tells me important things. Makes me cd's with monsoon music.
This isn't simple. Or maybe it is. We both give as much as in us lies. For one of us, tis too much, for the other tisn't enough. I can't ask for more and I can't give less. This giving is new. It is beyond failed romance, beyond even what our bodies mean to each other. It is the reason why I can't say 'this hurts' and let go.
Sometimes there is no awareness, we just do things for each other because...it can't be any other way. Not now.