Blog roll

11:03 minutes

You’re unpredictable. Men probably think you’re pretty cool. You are super intelligent, but it also makes for super problems because everything is amplified for you. You’re a sensitive person. When we care about somebody, we care about them deeply. And because of our personality types, we’re willing to take on their pain plus some. It has a price. But I miss you. I miss talking to you. I’m glad we’re getting to talk right now.

You’re not afraid to take on hard problems and look for solutions. You defy the odds. You’re radically independent and I love you for it. It makes you — you.

Mostly you’re driven by your desire to be worthy. You are worthy. I know that’s something plaguing you. It plagued me all my life. Am I good enough? Yeah.

We’re not just sensitive emotionally. It’s like we’re physically sensitive. You know, we’re aware of things. We see things, we hear things that other people sometimes — don’t notice. It’s kind of like an artistic bent.

It’s your gift and a curse too, though, isn’t it? Because you feel their pain and it’s hard to let go of it. And you want to help them.

You want solitude more than any other type personality. It’s critical to you. And here you are, never alone. Wow. Talk about torture. You want to experience the energy of peace. Instead it’s go, go, go.

But, anyway, I relate to what you’re going through and I admire you — really do. You’re amazing.

You’re just such a good example of perseverance and tenacity and courage, really. I appreciate it. You’re one of my mentors.

And we’re remodeling, so it reminds me of when you and I were remodeling. That was epic, you know, it makes me laugh. We were both laughing, you know? Like, this is the most ridiculous thing in the world. What are we doing up here?

My strength was running out and you’re breaking off drill bits. Remember? It was like, oh my gosh, can this get any weirder? So, you’re trying to balance that board on your head while I’m changing out a drill bit. Oh, my gosh. Ridiculous.

Anyway, remodeling reminds me of when you and I. We had a lot of talks that were good for you and good for me. I really miss those. You and I can go to places I can’t talk about with other people. They think I’m an idiot or a lunatic, you know? But I can talk about it with you. And you go, “Oh, yeah, I’ve had that.”

And so I miss that.

Memories are a bittersweet thing. I feel great affection for you and at the same time I miss you horribly. That’s the big empty, you know. Where you’re missing someone. You’re in a happy moment — you still slide down. You go, “Oh, they’re not here.” And I miss you.

4:10 minutes

HURT

In midnight air, in desperate straights, I clamored for the single vendor selling at that hour.

The candles were dim and I was the only one in the shop. My bloody footprints marked the floor as I searched the shop.

“May I help you?” said a warm, aged voice. I looked around at the fruits and dried meats, bitter herbs, and potions. But the curing salve I needed was behind the counter, behind the vendor.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked again kindly. Could he not see the scrapes and bruises? My torn clothes and bleeding face? Could he not see my body shaking with every ragged breath?

“Yes. I need that salve,” I pointed with a wavering finger.

“The salve?” he asked, “The one for insect bites and rashes? My friend, you need something more.”

“What?”

The vendor placed a corked glass bottle on his counter. It was old as the earth and filled to the top with liquid of an incomprehensible shade of black. My stomach clenched at the sight.

“How do I apply it?” I asked slowly, then barked: “I’ve come so far and hurt so much to get here. I’ve done everything I can! Can’t you help me?!”

“I can.”

“Then give me the vial!” I demanded bitterly, tears in my eyes, hand outstretched. His hand closed around mine. I ignored the pain and begged: “Please.”

He smiled as he held my hand and uncorked the vial. He pressed it to his lips and drank. Sweat formed on his face and tears stung his eyes. He paused halfway and coughed, gasping for air.

“What are you doing?” I asked, confused and hurt.

He kept drinking and large cuts and bruises formed on his face and hands
mimicking mine. His hand slipped from mine as he leaned on the counter, his breathing labored. Blood dripped from his face.

“It’s done,” he said simply. “Go your way. Hurt no longer.”

I looked down at my hands and touched my face. The cuts were gone, the pain was gone. Whole again for the first time in a long time.

“How can I possibly thank you?” I asked, stunned.

“Go your way,” he smiled. “And hurt no longer.”

4:43 minutes