of the blue weeping of violets?
Pablo Neruda, "XXIII" Book of Questions
last night i fckd up and missed my bus. seems like a small thing, no? that's what i thought. but my heart felt differently. for the next 40 minutes i sat on my bathroom floor and rocked back and forth. then i got up, lit a candle in the bedroom and turned on the "mulheres" iTunes playlist that i've been building up for 4 months with the perfect songs for the moment of breakdown (i knew back then that the day would soon arrive). the tears started flowing at india.aire's "beautiful" and by the time i had gotten to sweet honey in the rock's "wanting memories" i was too worked up to sing.
a poppy opened in my throat, raw and potent. "now the world outside is such a cold and bitter place..." i remembered Ianna told me once that a bus door closed in her face one day and she cried. everything finds its way inside and, from there, works its way out. everything. [note to self: send Rainer Maria Rilke a letter. it should begin "Dearest Rilke, Living the questions is more dangerous than I had anticipated..." it should end "if I do not survive, have someone write a melancholy-romantic love song about me in portuguese."]
i lay in my bed last night and the tears just ran. and it felt good. across my mind a slideshow of faces passed, opportunities that i had missed because i was afraid or because someone else was. it passed through me. i mourned for so many moments that had gone by without being registered fully. i mourned for parts of me that aren't with me anymore. casualties of war. and for people no longer close or no longer sane or no longer free or simply no longer. i missed my dog Densu and the arms of my first boyfriend Solomon.
mourning is essential.
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