Hamilton's Barn

If there were words here they have gone away.

I clicked on this draft and found it empty. I was hoping to find out what the fuck I had been thinking about some months ago and maybe correct it, maybe re-discover it, maybe shame myself for how wrong I was such a short time back: but I came up empty.

And maybe that’s a good thing.

I spent a little time yesterday and today reading things I wrote when this love was younger, when I was younger, and a good chunk of the time it makes me sad to see how sad I once was. I mean, I still fight some of the same dragons, but I feel like a better fighter and I feel like I have a better sense of what the actual fight is. I mean, the dragons are always me. And I’m not longer ashamed of that mistake. I’m just down for the fight.

It seems some sort of shitty way to think about it - that I am in some sort of internal, eternal war - but I know my head isn’t really my friend much of the time. It may be chemical or programming. I really don’t know, but I do know that I have to do this.

See; I have to look at these two selves. There is the guy waiting this who seems to try to drive the machine. Then there is the machine which has complaints I can’t control and idiosyncrasies of transit that I can’t ever seem to anticipate. I don’t know this machine. I don’t identify as this machine and I don’t much agree with it’s ethics and tactics. It’s scary to be trapped in a machine that can turn sour and drive off the road without a whole lot of warning and to know that I’m permanently paired with it - driver and machine - and I will always have to go to therapy and read and do strange self-care rituals in order fo the machine to stay in tune and function with even a low bar of usefulness.

But I am gong to be okay. I might be alone or full of regret, but so long as I spend enough time doing the daily maintenance, I’m going to be okay.