The thing about this feeling. This way this feeling, or of feeling. The thing about this is that everything becomes poetry. Or was always already poetry. Blows up.

You are oscillating so hard, so desperate, that you force everything to resonate with you. Like there is the truth. And there. And also there. Suddenly everything means. Or something.

You read Ariana Reines and weep openly. Bukowski takes a crack at you and you are still going. Untitled sonnets. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot. An enraged Facebook post. The Sunday weather report.

Is this artifice or is this everything. And/or all of the above. You don't even want to hear the word anymore, but you can't escape everywhere. Mayhaps.

Open another book. Start again.

Hello, space.

Space that is mine, at least in the digitally profiled sense. Space that may or may not actually be me, in the same sense.

It is strange to be here, not just because I have not been here for many months (though I haven't not even a backward glance), but because I've just taken this strange trip down other spaces I had like this one, except before. I would say it was a trip down memory lane, but I neither remember writing most of the things nor have I actually ever stopped living them.

Eventually I stopped laughing and realized that I have a lot to say to my 2005 self. Or very little. Mostly I think just a slow, sad nod. An acknowledgment that ten years are not going to change the type of feelings she/you/I had/have/are having.

Only now she/you/I have to be careful about so many things. And people fake laughter more, but whether or not you want to learn to tell the difference, that's up to her. And you won't eat quite as much Pocky when I am a "grown up".

Don't ever forget what she/you got from the people you love most, but not all of them will stay by your side. There will be many new awesome people. Just figure out how to deal with letting them in.

On the plus side, wine.