I am just home and I feel very, very breakable.

I might, or might not, have broken us. I certainly did things that some people would have broken up over. He said some things that hurt me . . . but mostly he tried his best to hold back the waves, I think.

I’ve been feeling close to drowning for a few weeks now . . . weather, winds–not sure why.

But I hope I got close enough to the undertow this time to scare me for good.

Hm. Even as I type that I know that’s wrong. Fear of failure doesn’t keep people from failing.

It’s only looking at the good things that keeps us afloat.

* * *

Polished GlassHe told me this weekend that when he was a child, he spent hours by the lake, looking for shells, and driftwood, and stones. His favorite thing, he said, was glass polished smooth by the water. How amazing to see those scratches, the power of wind, water, tide . . . and the way the glass endured, grew beautiful.

We are fragile, but we are strong, too, all of us.

A thought to hold on to.

* * *

I wonder about writing sad, negative things here–unsexy things, personal things. Why? Because of what we all know, now, in our disillusioned, connected world–that the internet is forever, that there is no privacy on the internet, that people Out There can hurt you, blah blah blah. I care less about this for me than for him, somehow–as I have written before, he guards his privacy seriously.

For me, it’s that I hate to “hear” my voice so publicly . . . in my journals it is different, more intimate, but I haven’t kept a journal in months and months, and I am out of the habit of writing anywhere but at the keyboard. A few months ago chelseagirl privately, and generously, encouraged me to blog, if I wanted, about anything; just to write and to make a safe place for myself, as she has talked about making a place for herself, boyfriend or no boyfriend, sex or no sex.

I could use the safe space now, so I will. The emotional side of me, in all its violence, melodrama, tears, happiness, in all its hues and verbal variety, drives him to distraction, frightens him. I wish I weren’t that way–it bothers other people, too, and I wish I weren’t so emo sometimes. But that’s me, the emotions are part of me. Better I suppose to pour them out onto the page, as I always did, or work them out in a long run, than to lash out as every one passes through me.

So–I am sorry about the melodrama, but then, life is, in all its colors.