december

Franz Marc, Grazing Horses IV (The Red Horses), 1911

I’ve started two Zadie Smith novels in the past two weeks, finished one. I finished the new Naoise Dolan novel, started North Woods because everyone says it’s good, bought a story collection by Claire Keegan, started the Joyce Carol Oates short story collection mentioned in the New Yorker profile. T told me to read Goddesses in Everywoman so I started that, too.

December is a liquid month (R just said “fugitive month.”) It’s a good time to read. I bought a wreath and a tiny Christmas tree for my apartment. I went to my favorite cafe this morning and ordered a steaming bowl of tomato basil soup and sat in the corner with Akko. It was such a contrast from last night, which can only be described as “manic.” I’ve been arguing more than usual with A, which is not my favorite thing to do and also entirely unhelpful, seeing as that we’re rarely on the same page at the same time. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a relationship with its own insane internal logic, where both people say and do things that make sense only within the contained narrative world they’ve created with each other. Sometimes I fear that my life consists of nothing as so much as a series of these worlds, bubbles where normal logic is suspended.

*

I want to be strong, but I need reassurance. I don’t want to feel like I have to do everything on my own forever. I trust you, but I’m worried, and I hope that you have space for my fear.