Diary heart

I’m sitting on the floor at the Calgary airport and have just realized there are cannabits under my fingernails on account of yesterdays adventure: got stoned on cement steps of an unmarked building across from some park rangers’ cars, stared at the Rocky Mountains, and cried for two hours. It was below freezing, but rest assured (no one cares) my tears run hot so I didn’t notice. God it is absolutely exhausting being hypersensitive. Sometimes it’s more miraculous than I have words to describe, but more often it is excruciating.

Yesterday I took a taxi from my mountain inn into the town center and before starting the meter the driver said “Well we probably only have 5 minutes together, so you have 5 minutes to tell me your life story.” He was wearing a brown paperboy hat and had the sort of eyes you can trust with wordless reason. When I got out of the taxi we wished each-other good luck with life and then, again, I cried!

On a different day a different taxi driver pulled up to the door of my inn and said “ahh.. this place smells like San Diego (?) to me. You know it’s been open since the 50s? Smells like old carpet, food, and cleaning products. Not that I’m complaining.” That didn’t make me cry, but I did appreciate it. That was an aside I just wanted to say something without emotional charge.

It’s 10pm I have about 30 minutes or so before we board and I just got up to stare at myself in the florescently lit bathroom mirror. She looked tired, sad, dry.. a few cherry red zits around her lips too. The Internet is an illusion.

I read every day not because I’m just this intellectual dying for a chance to uncover (not to say that’s Not at play to moderate extent), but primarily because it is my most proficient escape. There is no (solo) activity that soothes me like trading minds with a stranger for a few hundred pages of time. I tried to go on this trip raw (raw: no books. just vehicles for writing) but have given up after 4 hard days and spent $25 on fiction that features a protagonist who wears your name. I’m well aware as I swipe my imaginary money card that this will bring me more than a few pangs of .. just pangs.. that’s as much as I want to explain, but I buy it anyways. The last time I saw you, you looked at me with pitying eyes and said “sometimes I forget that you just do stuff.” Translation: sometimes you just do things that hurt you; silly, little girl. I hate that you put yourself above me, but I hate more that I sometimes liked it.

What do you tell yourself to sleep at night? Do you sleep like a baby? Do I pass by your consciousness? Am I grieving this alone? I am mad that you maintain a position above the pain. I tell myself you’re just a coward, but secretly wish I was even one iota capable of emotional detachment.

I have always preferred to be hated than to be pitied. I suppose that’s an ego problem I should address. Everyone gives advice in platitudes when you’re heartbroken. I can’t blame them, there isn’t much to say to irrational folk. I really don’t want any advice, I just want to be held tenderly.