And then all your selves come back to yourself. And you meet in the middle of time. And all things. And all things. Linear trajectories, stories within stories, ceiling fans and shades of light and streaming senses and pictures of you and feelings of me they’re all here. All together. Everything is speaking today. Every stone, every pebble askew within the framework of the cement, every molding painting pinkish palid and all this light that is interacting with everything. Everything has something to say. Hello and goodbye. A passing. A connecting. Fruition. 

I love this place wildly. 

And I want to write all my beliefs down…at periods of time in my life…and compare them. Because things I believed a month ago I don’t anymore. I’d like to follow the evolution. And you always seem to think you’re wiser today than you were yesterday…but who can say much of anything these days? The winter light is eerie with memory and opening fingers. The world is holding me. 

Time to let go now. Time, I cannot race you. You win every time.

Nothing ever quite begins or ends except for in the constructs you allow to exist in your mind. 

The creation of a place exists within the energy that persists, not in the particular arrangement of objects that sit at any moment. Feel the meaning as it comes in AND comes out. They both exist. Release is its own creation. I permeate through space and then I keep moving. 

Ready? No. Good.

I’m trying to hold on to an objective sense of this place in time and it will NEVER happen. Give it up Lauren. 

And my compulsions are okay when I can recognize them, get outside of them, and laugh them off. Then let go.

Keep arriving. Keep seeing it from all angles it will keep calling to you. There is not one moment of arrival. Everything travels. Stasis is illusory. You can never feel it all…you can only get the feeling OF it. 

Shapeshifter. It’s even in motion NOW.

I remember what move in day felt like…life is unbelievable. And then it dissipates. It’s ALL creation. And I love the way this fabric feels on my muscles. And that’s what it is. I love the presence of that plate. Of these receipts and dirty socks and this one beer bottle cap sitting next to the remote we never used. I love the shape of that bag sitting there. It’s all arranged. But change the arrangement of yourself and you are still innately you. There is an essence that cannot be destroyed. I can’t quite find it or map it but I can feel it. I just want to feel my body moving through this space a little longer. Touch all the objects that carry your various presences and see what they tell you about how you’ve evolved. Every surface is drenched in my soul. Empty wrappers and itchy carpets…those times Adam and I fell asleep on the floor…when we watched Firefly. The program from The Revival…September is so VIVID in my head. All the places my objects have shown me. It’s ok to be a materialist in this sense…the embodied pieces of me that I put out on display in postcards and small trinkets and posters that say where my heart lies. I surround myself with myself and I feel home within 4 walls. Scottsboro playbill…when I really thought that the awkwardness was just a passing phase. Hah. I entered a child in love and I leave a broken hearted woman in shambles. But SO much stronger. Wiser. More mature. 

And I am confronted by all these preconceptions I had about this semester when I moved in…and how WILDLY different the world looks now. It’s so mind blowing. 

The objects get moved. The love transforms. Everything permeates. Osmosis. 

Pick up all your memories and pack them away. I am dragging you out of every inch of this apartment and throwing you away. Maybe placing the good parts in a box to take home and hide in my closet…but you’re getting excavated. THIS is what I needed.

And let some things actually DIE. Don’t presume that everything will be able to be found again or SHOULD be. Somethings DIE. 

I am an assembly of memories. I’d just like to whisper my fragments towards the moon.

My essence is hidden in the stolen smells and the lingering plastic bottles and the dirty underwear. A home is disassembling itself. I remember when you were here with me. We had sex there. But this is MY life. These are my objects. Not yours. Pamphlets from places we never made it to. Unused condoms, those are the worst. I can feel myself shifting with every broken dream. You’re so close within this presence that I can almost me sure if I turn around you’ll be there running your hands through my hair or kissing my shoulder. I can feel you moving about this place with me. But this is not about you. This is about ME. My life. My apartment.

Everything is just stimulus. And this stimuli is so wrapped up in you. The night I put these postcards on the wall while you listened to my soul. This is the final push. It’s helping too. Because I’m remembering the good parts again. September pieces are coming out of the woodworks and everything else is mine. And September was beautiful. And I remember that you.

Accept that not EVERYTHING is wrong. He is not wholly bad. He is not even half bad. And accept that we had what we had when we had and it is not THAT Adam that I need to purge…I will always have that love…it is THIS that I need to purge. Sort out the memories. See the light AND the dark. Recogize all. Differentiate. Separate into piles. Throw out the trash…and pack up yourself. Reclaim your life. 

You loved me SO beautifully. How could I ever hate you? How could I ever not love you?

Love moves through my life like I move the places I inhabit. She is following me and waiting to set up home somewhere new. 

Is there an isness to me or to anything and where is it? Is it a continuum? I am obsessed with sensation. 

It’s just making peace. Accepting. It’s not spite that I’m ridding you from me…its just fact of life. I can’t blame you for anything. What control do we really have on ourselves? How much of me is just inherent? If I increase my mental force and control can I change my being? Are you subject to the whims of your isness?


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