I'm carrying the heartache with me like we've never been apart.
(Every time I sit down to write this, I stop myself. It's too personal, it's too much for here. After nearly 14 years of doing this, of sharing the most banal aspects of my life on the Internet, I'd like to think that I've perfected the art of maintaining a personal blog without ever actually getting too personal or giving away too much. But it's hard lately, figuring out where that line is. I've become too cognizant of who is reading these words and more so, who will read into them. And in that way, even if I only write three sentences, it may still be too much. I'm forever starting over. And yet.)
The heartache is just that--a dull ache, at best. I don't have the time or energy for tears. It's aching for a lost friendship, for a life that I never felt completely comfortable with, for something that was probably never meant to be--or maybe it never really was. It's aching with the uncertainty of what I've done and what that means and what I don't have control over.
The heartache is following me, heavy on my heels as I tromp through the city, music in my ears, frustration in my fingertips, toque pulled low over my ears. I'm carrying it carefully, close to me, because I need this now. I need to know what this means because this is how I'm going to figure out what I want.
And in time, I'll be fine. I'm always fine. It's probably the thing that I like most about myself.
I knew that it would be like this.