I live and it falls out everywhere and spills out over the sides and leaks forth from the speakers on my desk and my own lips and it seeps into the words I say and the manner in which I dress, the way I stand and how I make eye contact. It shapes the expression on my face and the thoughts tucked away below my crazy hair and the way my hands slide from the table to my pockets and back again.
I would like you to live also. I would like you to stop feeling obliged to grumble “good-morning-how-are-you” to me as we trade shifts in the bathroom in the morning, and replace this with you telling me what’s on your mind or something about your family or your dog or the abandoned city park a block away from where you grew up. I would like to have lunch with you, with conversation as the main dish.
But you’re right when you think that I live too much, with too much accidental and messy flourish. I would like a jar for my emotions that I can open up and fish around in at will, in which I can trade stress or aggravation or sadness for calm at a moment’s notice, each feeling just a tiny paper slip. I would like to not feel solitude as a sort of persistent dark itch. I want to put on composure with good posture and grace, thin and sheer as silk.
I’m trying to, but I don’t think I can. Most of me just wants to reach out my hand to (somewhat uncomfortably) pull you along with me, downwards, and to hear you laugh, a real warm laugh that rings, along the way. I’d rather take you with me, for this strange thing called living. But I don’t think I can. Instead, I open the bathroom door. Good morning, I’m doing pretty well, and I hope you are too.