all I do is write, write, write

these days it feels as though there is so much yearning and longing inside me that it eats away at me, pulling myself inward, I am my own black hole. I don't fold inward on myself and disappear into nothingness, all consumed by want.

for months, evenings have gone by where I don't feel the traditional hunger cues that alert me that it's time for dinner. twin sisters melancholia and depression slink their way into the hazy border between my conscious and subconscious during this time, and do their best to worsen how I feel about everything. depression takes a seat at the table with one leg crossed over the other, and lights a cigarette as her twin twists my own words, thoughts, and images into explanations and suggestions as to why it doesn't matter. it really doesn't matter, she says, that I should eat, or live, or reach out to my friends, or carry on living for all that I think matters. occasionally the cigarette passes between the two, traveling between hands without one or the other taking their eyes off of me.

Love comes in different forms and ways. I knew that, but am now experiencing the other ways and forms. Friends, family, coworkers turned friends, romantic partner. Now two men where the boundaries and form of the relationships are ink droplets in water. Fluid, changing, thin in some places and thick in others, no real end or beginning.

Maybe I had an idea of love or romantic love and was throwing it at people, hoping it would take shape of something solid and stick.

Kundera writes of the two different obsessions with lovers, lyrical and epic. The lyrical obsessor looks for the ideal lover in every lover, thus never satisfied with one person and they move onto the next, looking for the elusive ideal. I don't know if I thought of you negatively and then thought I may be projecting myself onto you, or thought sadly and pitied myself for looking for "love in forms it will never take . . . and in places it will never be." Which is true, I don't know. Maybe I should ask if you resonate with either at all and if so which one. It's a hard conversation not meant for text.

Once again, there's another line in Cat's Cradle that I find myself relating to and becoming upset with myself. The narrator speaks of becoming fascinated with the idea of what it would be like to be loved by this one woman (who he hasn't met). I feel like at least I met you and grew to know you, somewhat. I don't think I was, over the summer, necessarily thinking of what it would be like to date you but I know that I was constantly thinking of you and wanting another night of you in my bed and your hands on mine. Maybe I projected my own best qualities onto you during late June to the end of July while talking about you to my friends - but that idea doesn't stick much with me because you are kind and caring and funny. Maybe it's an excuse to rationalize and intellectualize our feelings, especially the bigger and harder ones that we don't understand. That one's a hard one to grapple with.