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Day two. Sitting on the couch with Abundance while he takes a work call, and I like having him here so much. I'm trying to live in the moment, enjoy it for what it is, not worry about how often it will happen again, if I'm really doing the best thing by him, feeling like an ass for finding happiness in an event that has painful reasons.
He (and Light) seem to be poking around a thing called Secret, which I'm a little intrigued by, but I'm also trying to find fewer things to look at on the internet, not more, so for the moment, I'm fighting the temptation. Instead, I'll be over here with my cross-stitch and my attempts to read Decisive (a book Abundance has me reading for background/shared vocab, which I find a delightful task, even if the tone of the book vexes).
I should be doing dishes, or laundry, or any number of other things that isn't staring blankly at this page, trying to find some words to put on it.
I'm writing in a paper journal now, and I'm finding the space charming and useful, it's actually addressed as though it were a long-ass letter to Abundance, and as such, I get to make the declarative statements that I try not to allow myself to make here. You were here. We did this. I felt that. I wish I was X. I wish Y didn't affect me. Here, it's something different. Here I'm trying to strike some balance I can't even articulate, chock full of intimacy and identity and agency all at once. With some rueful self-awareness for seasoning. Here feels more like stumbling, learning the trick of tripping without falling.
He (and Light) seem to be poking around a thing called Secret, which I'm a little intrigued by, but I'm also trying to find fewer things to look at on the internet, not more, so for the moment, I'm fighting the temptation. Instead, I'll be over here with my cross-stitch and my attempts to read Decisive (a book Abundance has me reading for background/shared vocab, which I find a delightful task, even if the tone of the book vexes).
I should be doing dishes, or laundry, or any number of other things that isn't staring blankly at this page, trying to find some words to put on it.
I'm writing in a paper journal now, and I'm finding the space charming and useful, it's actually addressed as though it were a long-ass letter to Abundance, and as such, I get to make the declarative statements that I try not to allow myself to make here. You were here. We did this. I felt that. I wish I was X. I wish Y didn't affect me. Here, it's something different. Here I'm trying to strike some balance I can't even articulate, chock full of intimacy and identity and agency all at once. With some rueful self-awareness for seasoning. Here feels more like stumbling, learning the trick of tripping without falling.
