Since being here I wake up from dreams where rats bite at my hands, and demons pull at my shirt, and where you are with me but we are not talking. I wake up sweat soaked and discontent and there is always a fan to be heard. But there is also your matted hair, and wandering hands in the middle of the night, and sheets that can’t keep us cool enough in the evening heat here. And maybe most importantly, you are here. And this means something, or meant something, and I once could not wrap my head around something greater.
I understand what they mean when they say we must cultivate our own happiness. Like I wrote months past, no one can save you from the hole you dug for yourself. I must not be angry at myself, or him, or the cards dealt. It all simply is, but my goodness I want so much more than this hot tourist town for my life. Everything is a season, and some chapters are longer than others I suppose. This too has to be okay, has to be worthwhile for the writing.