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In your genius, I find proof of love. That you are not here by design, but by cosmic satisfaction and raw luck. You make evident the miraculous nature inherent to us. Your reactive beauty. My growing ability to see you newly. Textures I may never have conceptualized, but because I'm alive, here I am! at the mercy of softness I can't see coming. Surprise!
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i started on tumblr back in 2008, when i was 15. my friends kathleen and mizzy were on the site and their blogs seemed cool so i gave it a shot. immediately after creating my first tumblr, i deleted because i didn’t know what to do.
less than a year later, i created a new tumblr and that’s where the party started. one of the first friends i ever made was NavK. His writing was captivating to my young soul. I had another friend here, Camille. She was always working on growing herself in Christ and challenging the ways she/we lived in this world. I really looked up to her and was sad when i realized she was no longer on this site.
i documented my teenage woes - the depths of depression and unrequited love. at some point, i had a 365 day side blog, where i would answer one “thought provoking question” everyday. i ended up meeting Tamaus through that side blog and we became pen-pals for some time. True to nature, i ended up deleting it because i hadn’t followed through with all the days. an incomplete was worse than not having it at all. Silly.
At various points in time, I had more side blogs. A fitness blog with Ingrid (that’s how I met Martha) and a private shared blog a former best friend. i really thought he was “the one” and he very well could’ve been at the time. I do believe in soulmates for a season. at some point i met vantes and his virtual friendship really expanded my horizons. forever grateful.
somewhere around 2014 i wasn’t blogging as much. by that point, i had a very pro-black/political blog but eventually stopped altogether. again, i felt the need to separate myself from the old blog and created a new one. the shenanigans continued until an ex gave me an ultimatum - get rid of the tumblrs if i wanted to stay with him. I didn’t get rid of them- but i had martha change my passwords and for 9 months, i was tumblr free.
thank goodness that relationship ended. i got back on the tumblrs but neither of the blogs felt right. they documented a lot of dark times for me and those vibes felt very tangible still. I ended up deleting both blogs - something i thought i could never do. and yet, it was an easy decision. up until that point, i wanted to hold on to my writings and growth. i always thought i could share my URLs with my future children and grandchildren. but i didn’t feel the need to. didn’t feel the need to hold on to the past.
then we get to this blog. in 2018. I guess i’ve been here for 10 years - wild. i’ve gotten rid of most of my social platforms at least once over the course of these 10 years. i currently only have this one tumblr and snapchat. every friend i’ve made here, i have as a contact in my phone.
i say it all the time - i’ve met some of my best friends in this space. the message section on all three blogs was a sacred place for me. it was where i got to connect and grow with people. it was a safe space.
i’m not necessarily going to delete this blog but my tumblr experience has definitely seen more interesting and interactive days. i really only got to writing this because i was inspired by vantes’ post. i have fallen in love a few times here, fallen out of friendships, learned more about ~everything~ here than anywhere else. i will forever and always think of this virtual space with the utmost fondness.
Seldom do I see this hour. I should change that. I need to remember that I can alter myself. At any time. But I'm up thinking about lost love. And how blame is so empty and boring when you really consider what went wrong. How nothing really went wrong; time just made us less correct for each other. And how long will I need to be sad over a little bit of algebra, before i let myself have all the deaths I am due?
Re-membering is necromancy. A stitching of dispersed sand and soul. A sticky, magnetic fiction. And if I'm not careful, I weave a cage out of myself, trying to remain all the people I've been. Imagine the silliness of attempting to be who you were when you knew less. The absurd contortion between fact and whim.
And if the only way back to you is to un-know the things that are true now,
well, obviously, I can't. But that doesn't mean I won't/don't/can't miss you.
I am penalizing myself with my own past. Life is water, and I was born a net.
Sunday morning is slow as honey. Watchful, but mindless. Eyes and ears fill with imagery. Life pours into the body. The body is a chalice. The wine inside--maroon from memory--saturates the glass.
I am not proficient at orchestrating stories. What I can do is scoop up small puddles of thought from the river in my mind and briefly hold them to the light.
I haven't lived long enough to say with confidence what love really is. But when I reflect on the word, I imagine running water, dark brown songs that become more intoxicating with age, someone to dance with, drunk and stimulated, pelvis pressed against hips, undivided attention, and a million nerves in agreement. You're mine; I'm yours; I always miss you.
Nothing is louder or more nonconsensual than loneliness. I have an unquiet heart that looks for any opportunity to split in two.
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When I take myself out of my normal environment, it reminds me that I can be reset at any time. I can stop hoarding so many relics of my past. A new self shows up to every moment. The present erodes my identity; it exposes a dynamic soul that answers to a hundred names.
I have a wild and busy inner life that moves like a river. I can carry a few things with me, but there are some loves, some tragedies that plummet straight to the bottom. Farewell to my sunken treasures. The inherent mystery of my immediate future is all I have room for. Too much clutter, too much keeping, and I risk losing the sensitive flow of the current.
Go figure. I want to swell and teem and react. I want to be forgiven for not knowing what choices to make in advance.
More than sex (but not instead of) I miss the talking phase. Have you seen what language can do? When the night is its darkest, our voices grow low and hoarse from laughter and recollection. I cradle your words in the hollow of my ears. You fit into the curves like water. We world-build and offer our hopes and fears for the structure. We talk about the places in our lives where the light spilled through. Conversation is construction. It's the first time I see your body in motion, slipping from room to room in your mind, permitting me to follow--sometimes, even, trail my fingers along your walls.
Your initial newness was suddenly invigorating, almost destructive, and it came at a time when I needed destroying--a leveling of kingdoms, bruised but defiant forests kicked up after flames. I needed to know that I could start over, that the horizon would eventually give in to land again. The first time you broke water in me, I felt a deep, coursing return to someplace ancient, like the soft, green violence of fresh earth lifting the concrete. I learned desire is thicker than stone.
