Call. Coffee. Write.
It has been a while since I’ve fallen into the comfortable rhythm of morning ritual. My writing has suffered for it. Ever since the unfortunate (and hopefully temporary) split I’ve been in a rut, both emotionally and physically. It is simple to call what I am feeling depression, but like a shirt one size off, it just doesn’t quite fit right. Part of being with a person is developing a way of life with them. When things are off my mind falls into this trap of trying to function the way it ought to be and the way it had been while nothing is exactly the same. The effect is similar to filling a gas tank with water and expecting to still drive. I guess what I am saying is I am fueled by love and driving through my day without it is both difficult and damaging to my soul.
I should work on developing a better sense of metaphor. Such things are generally cleaned up in second draft, but here and for the next few minutes there is only first draft. There is another metaphor, for life: You only get a first draft.
The truth is I am a far more complete person when my partner and soulmate is a part of my day. What some have called habit, pheromones, and even blind ego to me bears an ethereal quality. In each other I find a type and sense of belonging that is not repeated anywhere else in my life. In my partner I find the beauty of wanting to grow old with someone.
That I suppose is what makes it so difficult to let go and what makes the absence, if even psychologically, of her so profound. There is an Australian author named Beau Taplin who is blessed with a poetic turn of voice. He writes, “Sometimes, home has a heartbeat.” I find that to be true and fitting.
I find that I miss being away from home.