no one could ever look at me like you do

Chicago

Saturday we traveled back into Chicago to explore The Renegade Craft Fair!

North

A brief road trip North brought us through incredibly beautiful landscapes.

Remnants

Everything, everyone, has a story to tell.

A history.

We are all building our own history.

With every day that passes.

There are minute events that are easily forgotten,

though equally important-

they are seemingly insignificant.

How will we remember the important ones?

I am part of your history now,

and you a part of mine.

How will we remember the events that occur between us?

Is it more difficult to record memory accurately

when there is nothing tangible to connect to?

To an extent, we are capable of remembering and forgetting what we choose.

I forget things about you,

because it's easier to enjoy you without them.

There is a part of us that yearns for accomplishing something noteworthy.

We all want to be remembered.

There is a part of us that feels compelled to remind others of our existence.

A part of us that fears someone once close has forgotten.

What will you choose to remember of me?

Will what you remember be truth or fabrication?

April 3, 2009 (Fragments)

The sound of trains somewhere off in the distance will always remind me of home.

Not just home, but my parents' home, the place I grew and the place that prepared me for where I am now.

To hear trains now, in some distant, unknown place, only reminds me that this is not home.

This place I am, is not home.

This is not home.

When heard before..... I knew that most everyone I knew could hear those same whistles.

I realize now what comfort I found in this. a simple sound.

There is nothing familiar here.

There is no comfort.

There are few to be relied on.

I thought, maybe, by now, I might have settled in. Settled into this new life. 

This new life I have chosen for myself.

This life of independence.

It's terrifying.

It was the most difficult thing I've done. Ever. You know this.

When all I thought I wanted was to have myself, only myself, with no direct relation to another,

But I have not yet learned to be singular and solitary.

I have not learned to be with myself.

I will, most assuredly.

And there will be distance soon.

I've replaced self-control with other things. Many other things.

I will regain it.

Control.

I am hardest on myself.

The most critical.

The most full of judgement.

This will not change.

Tonight I am drawing for the first time in months. Man, many months.

The feeling is indescribable.

There is solace in this simple act of creating.

If there is anything I'm sure of now, that I wasn't before...

It is that the only comfort I know comes from creating.

Not words.

Not you.

Not home.

Not photos of loved ones and former lovers.

Though I have loved.

But from creating, making constructing, inventing...... being the cause of something's existence.

I love you.

You know it.

I'm saying it anyway.

You are the ones I live for,

Though I don't tell you often.

You are my touchstones- though I claim to have none.

I think you're more wonderful than I could ever express.

Dearly,

I love you.

April 3, 2009