This was 11 months, 27 days ago

some things hurt so much that they're hard to talk about straight. Instead you talk about it slant, approach it in wide meandering arcs, hoping that the evidence of what's meant to be said seeps through, a small sliver of sincerity glowing through the cracks.

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some things hurt so much that they're meant to be talked about directly, direct to the heart of it, like looking someone in the eye, so profane to just say it out loud that it becomes sacred again. phrases like "I was cancelled, and I'm not sure why", or "the people I loved the most betrayed me", or, "I didn't treat the people closest to me with enough care, precisely because they were close, and I hoped they would understand; I was careless and thus unkind, and I am sorry, sorry to those former friends, and sorry also for not being strong enough to break a cycle that others have struggled their entire lives attempting to break. I am sorry to them."

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some things hurt so much that they crack you open, expose your molten core to the crust, or the other way around, rather. your innards, gleaming with hot teeming intensity, erupt, a life force, a cooling but still-energetic fire of the self, emerges to the surface. what's at stake in a life? that, there, you point, underneath it all, that's it; when it erupts, your landscapes transform, familiar paths get detoured, cities get buried with ash. but also: the formation of a caldera, a view, many hikes, and a way to see the world.

from here, you say, I can see far.

what made this mountain was an eruption, an outpouring, a crack. where it came from was the life that teems underneath.

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some things hurt so much that you get angry, hurt, sad, confused, depressed, wounded, confused, rageful, angry, disgusted, despairing, numb. some things hurt so much that you pretend they don't at all, pretend nothing happened, feign ignorance, because it's too much; too much to display, too much to talk about, raw emotion upswelling like molten lava. exposure is dangerous. and some things hurt so much that you get sad, sad, sad, so sad, and so sorrowful the way things went, not just because it didn't have to go the way it did, but because it was really beautiful, at some points, those times, really wonderful. remember those times, you want to say? but there's nobody to turn to, nobody to say it to.

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sometimes things hurt so much, and they simply do. they just simply hurt. it just simply hurts, and that's it, and that's that, ocean crashes into a cliff, salt spray sprays, it just hurts.

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sometimes things hurt so much it's almost funny. almost.

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sometimes things hurt so much that it has permanently changed you, your landscape, the way you see the world, the way you understand people. it makes you angry, and spiteful, and condescending, and mean, exactly the qualities that you think those angry mean spiteful and condescending people have, and you know this, but you're there anyways, sneering at people who are always trying to be good all the time, the Good police, in the process suppressing their bad, their Jungian shadow, the parts of ourselves that we're the least conscious of having (thus, self-denial is a good trail to follow to find the shadow) so that it manages to flow out through in other means, you say, angry even though you already know that it's not the answer

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somerimes things hurt so much you learn

sometimes things hurt so much you learn another way of being

you emerge from an experience, and you remember

and you get to see, for a moment, maybe even for the rest of your life, what's at stake, what's at stake.

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what's at stake in a life? it's clear to you that it's not career achievement; a finite game, as james carse says; a finite game in which there are winners and losers, and in which the game ends if you are a loser, as opposed to an infinite game, in which the rules exist for the game to continue to be played; the joy of the game. it's clear that what's at stake is not financial success; money isn't trivial in a life, but that's not what's ultimately at stake, you say; if it were, you'd find integrity and wholeness among those who are wealthy, but that's not necessarily the case..

to speak or what's not at stake is wholly unsatisfying and deeply boring to list out, you think, because you believe that you (or anybody else who's listening) know what it is

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what's at stake is the work, the true work. not art, although art can be work; not labor, not a job, but what's at stake is the work of crafting a life, of living, of dying, of losing people, of holding memories, of losing them too. what's at stake is the task of grieving, remembering, loving. what's at stake is a deep cry, a deep wracking sobbing cry, that happens after you've left a friend's house and seen their beautiful family, kids and adults all a hilarious tumbling kind ambitious sweet joy, and you sit in your car in the foothills of Los Angeles and cry, sobbing, sobbing for your life, as if something suddenly melting, lava into rock but this time in reverse, running hot molten rivulets running out of your chest, down your body, onto the inside of your thigh, that you carefully wipe up with your finger and taste, the taste of yearning, the taste of something molten.

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sometimes things hurt so much I too ache, this place tells me, but also, it happened, and it happened, it says. it was beautiful, it says, simply. it was beautiful while it lasted, we were a beautiful lake, with so much water, so much water, it says, a deep booming voice so low you can barely hear it. we had water, and around it two feet tall horses would live, grazing at the grasses thst would grow. that was then, and this is now, and here we are, it says, simply. at its truths, I fall silent.

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sometimes you hear a sound like a rattle in the distance, and realize what it is, and the hairs on the back stand up straight, and you stop, as still as you can be, and while frozen for a moment you realize that you even a desert, even this desert, harbors life, as precious as any other. and of course, this is beautiful, and barren, and desolate, and gorgeous, and that is why you are here, in the middle of it sitting in front of your tent, just you and yourself, nobody around for miles on end, here to die so that you can live, here to mourn so that you can glow, here to prune so that you can grow.

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sometimes things hurt so much, and then they do, and then they will. but they also hold lessons. sometimes you change and get a kind of glimpse, a way of seeing, that allows you to see what's really at stake. sometimes you have friends who share and show that to you. sometimes you have the mountains, the rocks, the plants, and the sun to talk to. sometimes the moon, too, is becoming anew.

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underneath it all is the work, the task of living, the task of dying beautifully, it seems. I can see it at glimpses. if your soul knows what I mean, and I've caught you when your antennae are tuned open to the sky, like open dog ears; then hello. how are you. do you see this? do you see this, laid bare, the beauty of a life that will die, made from and with people that will die? what do you make of it all, friend? what of it all?

and so we point at rocks and landscapes, in the valley of death, exclaiming; and so I sit here, moving through fear and fear of fear, allowing myself to grieve. good night, everybody, I say. good night, they finally say back, deep, sorrowful, steady, resolute.