Journal # 03.03.15

Life tends to surprise with its falling apart. The clothes I was dressed in, down the lengths of my arms to the cuffs, down my legs to the ankles, holding tight to my heart now  fall off me. I am exposed again. A wise man once told me the 'oil' of life is relationship. My oil got heated and then burned, turned black again. + + +  I wouldn't have believed you if you told me how difficult it is to make and keep true friends. I think I will never stop trying. But I cannot hold our friendship over your head. There is no leverage. Only family has any leverage, in the end. Only blood. I am gonna do whatever I want, and you will do the same. + + + The cost of the freedom looks like the many paths of gunpowder shot out of a canister, touched to the flame for a great detonation. Lifestyle is explosive. When you realize you have a chance and you go for it, you're a bat out of hell. Relocations. Rearrangements. Rebirths. Repatterning. By the end of your course across the sky, you may find your oil is burned. + + + I still have my freedom and I am happy this way. But to drift the way I have, East to West over time, across the States, has had a great cost. I have suffered losses of fragments of myself burned and fallen off, a real moulting of snakeskin or plumage or traits of personality. + + + Those bygone lovers and friends, every one of them so critical in my becoming who I am, are mostly memories, and the loss of them, with or without a proper adieu, hurt so bad as the oil, gone black, and paper trails of self like colored confetti tumbling in the wake of us, flipping over and over and spreading out with the sun rays across the infinite sea, logged by water at the surface... then falling, falling deep down into the dark and maybe never to be retrieved.