i didn’t leave the apartment yesterday until dark when i went for a run. while the sun was out i stayed inside without wearing clothes, goldilocking my way among three beds in three bedrooms, reading three books, writing three letters. i grazed throughout the day, subsisting on swiss cheese and sugar-free fudgepops. i ignored my phone. i paid attention to pouring myself more iced tea.
i slept nine hours and took a nap. i dreamed that my brother was dead and the truth came out and my mother died of an aching heart and my father lived forever but was blind and couldn’t see me and i lived happily ever after invisibly. in the dream i missed my brother, but not much differently than i miss him in my waking life, even though he is alive. my brother is barely my brother anymore. he is my mother’s son, his wife’s husband, his children’s father, his boss’ employee, other things to other people, and he doesn’t have time to be my brother anymore, not in the ways that i miss him. that’s okay. they need him more than i do. i don’t need him at all, i just miss him.
the missing of my younger brother is what makes me vulnerable to unconsciously trying to replace him with younger men. there is a certain kind of “nice guy” that i give too much credit, too much leeway, too much unfounded positive judgment, because they remind me of my brother from ten years ago.
somebody to whom it shouldn’t matter asked me on saturday if i was still planning to have a child. i told him that i was and he asked more questions that are none of his business and then gave his unrequested opinions and i stopped listening. after that interaction, i reached out to another, one that is younger and to whom i’ve given too much credit, too much leeway, too much unfounded positive judgment, because i needed a palate cleanser, a mood eraser, fresh air. he obliged, the sweet one, and sent me a song he had recorded the night before.
i listened to that song on repeat for an hour yesterday. i’m listening to it on repeat again today. it’s a sad song that floats my heart happier inside. i don’t know what exactly about sad songs make me happy, but they always have. sad songs are usually honest and the truth lights me up.
while writing three letters yesterday i wrote myself into a truth i’ve been trying to understand for a few years. i love painting. the reason i love painting is that i love color. my love of color is primary. painting is the best way i’ve found to swirl colors between my fingertips. somebody once explained that french fries are the best ketchup delivery system. the love of ketchup is primary and french fries are secondary. painting is my swirling color delivery system. understanding why i love something isn’t necessary for me to love it, but understanding why i love something helps me love it more, better, truer, and the truth lights me up. lit up, i shine brighter.