peregrinate

Chances are that my information is faulty, so don't take my word without a cautionary pause.

I should never, ever complain about anything because I am alive and can breath and have legs that have muscles that are fired by neurons; and I have thick blood that is full of salt and oxygen, it goes coursing through my body and when I bite my lip I taste pennies. Working so very hard to never say the things lurking right below the line for passable social commentary, boil right down to self-interest. Well, that's what we're all about is it not? the valued examination of the self in the ever reflective mirror or, perhaps we are ever so much more. Is there seven or are the seven?

Now that I have that clear, I can move on to more insightful topics. My boyfriend got an x-box that he has spent thirty hours modifying into a media-center. I am not jealous, only lonely...no seriously. But on a much lighter note, he did buy a motorcycle. Now I can listen for the rumbling engine in the afternoons, wake-up quickly from a nap, and pretend never to have been asleep.

Final and bright note: playing cards with a group of couples is awkward. The future looms and tightens and I cannot always breathe and the room gets so damn hot. Which is the worst, because then everyone can read the shame in my cheeks. And the not knowing the people is there too, and the expectation that doesn't quite get spoken is a secret which has never really interested me all that much. And the truth that hides just behind the curtain is that they all know more about each other, have history, that is seperate and does not ever include me.

But all of this is not about my social disfunction. No that would be all to simple. It is that I never get seen, in element, by the man that I love.