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diaryland

sight. inner eye. line of sight.

18 July 2003 - 23:48

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>

Really, we're so much alike; we merely exaggerate different things. I am blank and impassive, and I don't realize that until I watch him inspired by the smallest things, or hear him make fun of me for my lack of response. I have only a few locks. There is no skeleton key into them. You fit. He does. It's love. It's unfolding.

Today we bought a van, threw everything in it in a dumpster, went to a carwash to clean it, realized we didn't have cash out, got change (not enough), cleaned as much as we could, bought four different kinds of cleaner from Walmart, scraped and scrubbed ad naseum (and I mean nauseum) ... and our life is ten times easier than three months ago. There are a thousand coincidences a day now: Their room number matched his cab number; the song on the radio when we first turned it on was the song I decided was our life in Portland. The address of our hotel is the same Portland address as the estate sale his parents atteneded today. We have the same dreams, the same thoughts.

And talking to you on the phone did the same thing to me. Took me out of myself. The whole night I bubbled.

Our love will take all of experience and smear it, like a drug does. Red heart in Chinese means loyal heart. I never leave myself and I never leave myself, all meanings possible.

We are living in a sunset time. We can see the spray of light as more than a few suspended moments. A red glow is showing me each moment holds all others; each moment is complete; each moment is slipping through our fingers; we don't even have this moment, and that's why it's ok.

The way we deal with the people we see all day is to think of them like children. He and I think of ourselves like children, precious and blooming, and that's why we love ourselves so dearly.

I write your name on myself every day. It's only forever.

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>