This is a blog. About grief. A glog.

This is a blog. About grief. A glog.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Post written Aug 5--when without internet

I hold entirely too dear the imagined disconnect between my keenings and a potential listener. I suppose that is why simple listening is powerful: it surprises, everytime.

I muse sometimes, that my self-centered language is more elaborate and affected than my otherwise-centered  language. Am I trying to impress myself and others with my capacity for deep thought? I thoroughly despise language too figurative to be grasped in one reading. I suppose I am capable, or contain the capacity, at least, for decoding others’ frufru language, but when it comes to my own feelings, I can’t record anything simply. I am reminded of a famous quote (google for citation/author/correct quotation thankyouverymuch): “Forgive me for the long letter; I had no time for a short one.”

Perhaps that is it. Feelings must be found, excavated, decoded, categorized and filed, so skimping on demystifying and translating is a small relief.  After all, who can blame me for self-indulgence in a journal that happens to be available online, should someone choose to visit it.

I miss Omar. But I fear I miss our potential together. It might, of course, still exist, should one of us choose to move near the other. But I have thus far consciously rejected as much as possible the idea of loving missing him for who he is because I worry I haven’t known him long enough. I wasn’t able to show my whole self that fast. It must be that I know I haven’t shown all of myself, so I suspect he has far far more in him, so the uncertainty of missing him feels unsafe—what if I miss someone I’ve completed in my head to be someone else? And all that worry is only possible because while he was here, I found a fast friend in him. He just left before I had time to find anything else.

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