The evening is marked with not so much a cry for help but a notification of an event or series of such. Something out of the ordinary maybe but then again maybe not. I don't know what to do with such news because there is nothing to do. I make a call and a mention only to realize this thing, this whatever it is, must be allowed to be. It cannot not be. It was is and will without me. Me adds or takes away nothing. I slip then sleep into fatalism.
Everything will be okay. The people you love, they will be fine.
I awake at night to a monologue. There was that time he interested me. Where did that go? The interest limiting the view like a thick morning fog lifted then gone. A beautiful day can make us forget until we need to remember how transitory it all is, when change is as welcome as a new season.
Better than fine. There is nothing you can do.
The morning is late as have been the last two. The anxiety decreases in direct proportion to time becoming less relevant. I make a call and we laugh. This, I think, I will miss but then remember how the fog lifts and smile at the thought I didn't even see a fog this morning. A cup of coffee and a long leisurely walk later I fulfill my obligations not out of duty but definition. I am defining myself.
Simply save yourself and see what happens.
It is Lebowski's birthday and we have lunch on a patio. There is a strong wind blowing the sun cool. We toast and talk about risk and courage and she thinks we are different but I say we are not. I don't know if I'll be okay, she says but I tell her she'll be exactly what she wants to be. I will miss you, she says. I will still be, I say but then wonder what.
What happens when the fog lifts.