Saudade

Shit. 30 minutes until the gym opens. Who knows what will drop out of me here. I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet. It's brewing. 

I posted last night anyway, was feeling some saudade. 

I had planned on going into the city to work today, but Rhys was a ball of energy last night and I didn't get to spend any time with him. SF will be there tomorrow, when I must go in.  

I got an email ad for a company today that, if I join, promises to bring me new readers. They claim to be the cause of my increase in readers the other day.  It is odd. I check how many readers I have most days but somehow feel that it's "cheating" to enlist a company to deliver more readers. I've had basically the same number with occasional jumps and drops in numbers for about 2 years now, maybe more. 

I never intended on structuring this site to be anything more than what it is: a place where I can openly discuss self-mutilation with my friends, etc.

Holy shit... If you ever tell yourself that you're experiencing a particular emotion, as I just did above, then just do a Google image search for the word of that emotion. Right away it will cure you of it. There are a handful of complex emotions that can be captured or conveyed through images, by some. Saudade does not appear to be one of them.

People are just terrible. 

Once I was at The Boathouse in Central Park with Rachel. We were trying to find a place to sit and have a glass of wine. There was a young-ish, dark-haired woman sitting at a rather large table by herself, looking out across the water reflectively. She was writing in a notebook. 

I will try to approximate it here:

You have left me once again in my lone coffin castle of solitude. You have hurt me, dear. You will never know what love treasures I had in store for you in my attic or basement. I am a woman of deep and drowning mysteries. The pain that you have caused me is like a knife through my plexus. I sit here among these artless Americans writing the words of my love where they are not deserved, will go unnoticed. Like our love that we shared so many times, over and over. You have hurt me so, dear. You stole my heart from between my legs.

And on and on, page after painful page of it... I wish I would have taken a picture of her staring out across that man-made lake in Central Park, filled with Google images. I should have offered to buy it off of her on the spot, then publish it under its appropriate title, license the movie rights. All of it.

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