Ever since you said that its been so long since I wrote that you stopped checking my blog, I've been thinking. Thinking that I do, in fact, need to write more. It means a lot to me, but apparently it means something to a few others as well.
There has been so much going on. When I fell behind with my own life, it made it difficult to find the time to sit and put it all on paper...
But if I am to start anywhere, it should be at the beginning.
When I moved here, to Seattle, all my time was my own. I planned my life around what I had created and nothing else. And I wrote a lot during those first few months. September, October, and December were pretty productive months for me. But then came Darren. Our relationship didn't take away from my time or my writing at first, but then I shifted. I shifted from my apartment, to his house. My laundry became our laundry, and quickly...my time became our time.
And so I fell behind in my own life. All the empty spaces, my precious empty spaces, were filled with other things, other obligations, other noise. Primarily the noise...to pass from one atmosphere to another, each filled with voices and faces and breath and bodies, took its toll on me. To wake in the morning next to another warm body and hear their sleepy voice as you slip from beneath the covers...immediately noise. To appear at work where the volume of bodies is highest and maintain the mask of absolute perfection...noise! To return from work to the waiting lips of the man from that morning...Noise!
And it is not the man that bothers me, nor the work. I like my man and my job...but it is the lack of emptiness, silence, slowness that my mind cannot handle.
Now...I am sitting in my little empty room where the bulk of its space is filled with thoughts rather than things. My roommate is gone and so this apartment is silent. And perfect.
Because I can find nothing more consoling than silence these days. When every day is filled with something, it is the empty spaces that mean the most to me.