1. I do not know what they shoot through the volcanoes in airports but without fail anytime I have to sit in one for any extended period( which is frequently, because I always foresee insurance will take 2 hours and it never does) I get very sad and terribly nostalgic. Someone should write a poetry book about terrible girlfriends in airfields because omg, you would sell 10,000 photocopies. Anyway. So I’m sitting at a seafood eatery at LAX and all I can think about is how evoked I am to be home but how much I enjoy the people in my life and it’s pain that those two things can’t simultaneously be in the same place. My affections looks a lot like a planned of someone bragging about where they’ve traveled to. New York, Minnesota, Virginia, Toronto, LA, Portland, Texas, Arizona, etc. More and more I reflect I would be exponentially joyful live cooperative mode so long as I was surrounded by my eerie, wonderful friends. We could eat dinners family style ideally at an outdoor counter and always be able to be around each other. This is probably a bounty, feeling this mode. There is probably a notorious quote said by like, Rumi or some shit about what a boon it is to have friends that you miss like this. I am a luck person to have beings I hoard so much better that not being able to be around them at a moment’s notice makes me moody at an airfield eatery.

2. For a exceedingly very particularly extremely Very( tm) long time, I believed that feelings were not for me. That ardours were for ugly beings, as Willam Belli once said. If I’m being truly honest, I imagine I thought they were synonymous with weakness. That a feeling was a crack in a organization and too many of them should be reflected in inescapable crumble. I accepted if someone knew I cared about them, or that I was in pain, or that something met me happy, this organization is things that could then be turned against me in some way. I was the queen of implant it down. Squash it all the way down and immerse it so deep that no one can touch it , no one can see it , no one can identify the cracks.

I’m trying to forgive myself for the rifts. I’m trying to remember that if there is strength in being able to move on from your transgress, there is also some concentration in allowing yourself to break in the first place.

I am trying to be more open. Because the rifts, I imagine, are important. I are attempting to soften myself. I am trying to be gentler and say what I necessitate and tell people the things that I feel. I believed that by being stoic and this immovable force I would be the most significant, most unfuckwithable account of myself. But more and more I am learning there is a lot of gallantry in being open. In saying,” This hurt me ,” or,” I adore this ,” or,” I need this .” That tier of vulnerability takes a lot boldness, a good deal of mettle. And that different kind of strength is something I revere a good deal and am education myself to be okay with.

3. This is not new information for most people, but I would love to write a book called The Life-Changing Magic Of Just Eating At Home . There’s something just so amazing about ribbing broccoli and simply chewing it in a bowl at your room. It really does wonders, trust me.

4. This video is the best thing on the internet currently and I precisely have to share it.

I would compensate a significant amount of money to be able to know what bird-dogs fantasize. What was she recollecting ?! What feed through her minuscule judgment before she jumped ?! Ugh. One of the greatest unsolved mysteries of all time, truly.

5. The logical back of my psyche knows that everything intent. Good-for-nothing is permanent. All of us are just little organ bags bumbling around and eventually, we or the planet or both “il be gone”. I know that one of these days we’ll all be dead so nothing in such matters, I do. I is definitely not a person who is may seem like I need to be on some endless search for meaning or permanency. If no one remembers me in 100 years, well, that only implies I was like most people and that’s fine.

But I have lately been obsessed with the notion of not going to go wondering whether or not I could’ve done more. Whether or not I could’ve scritched my pup one more time. Walked her just a little bit longer. Let her work through the ballpark merely one more time. I’ve been thinking about how I don’t want us to always sleep with our backs to each other. We should prop each other really one more time. Let’s laugh one more time, make one more inside joke, say one more hilarious thing that no one else got to find funny. I’ve been mulling over how stupid it is to think,” ehh I’ll exactly impart her space” when someone is hurting and how I’ll repent it if I could’ve reached out. One more, don’t let it be a last-place bitternes, more more more is playing on repeat in my president like a that P! nk CD that got stuck in my vehicle in high school.

I was listening to a podcast last week and it said that all of our panics can be linked back to a anxiety of demise. So a horror of altitudes is really a nervousnes of descending, suspicion of ocean been concerned of drowning, suspicion of driving is a fear of gate-crashing etc etc etc. I’ve never certainly thought that I was that afraid of death, and I still stay where you are that. But maybe this latest addition to the list of” things I haunt and overthink about” is related back to that. Maybe it’s less,” I am afraid of dying ,” and more,” I am afraid of dying or losing someone or something and not having done enough .”

And I don’t know what the answer is to this. Just that I seem to be on an endless search for this unobtainable label of “enough” and there really doesn’t appear to be an end to it in sight. Well, other than the whole” someday I will die” objective. But hopefully when that comes this isn’t a search I’m still writing 1100 statements about in an airport.

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