synchronicity

I got a text from the young redhead guy I saw a few times back when I began sleeping with men again.  It was utterly shocking, as if he was writing to a completely different person.

He flirted and I flirted back.  I wondered at myself about this response.  The internal and also the decision, the motions of my fingers, my sense of obliging him, how it all fit together.  Also how odd the timing is, how perfect in a sense.

That is, once upon a time this would have been exactly perfect timing, in terms of my mood or rage or pain.  I haven't heard from him in years and I haven't had a severe bout like this in years.  These things all feel connected.

I'm working hard to turn this corner or to hold on until this corner turns me. Back. Toward my self.

Snuffed out candle, wick still smoldering under the stream of smoke, and there is another me striking match after match.  Holding vigil.  Well.  Trying to.

The scene is unchanging.  Seconds pass.  Minutes.  Sit with them. Feel that? The urgency growing.  It's desperation.  The dark crowds in and I want the light. To push it back.  Before I lose my fear of the dark.

This repetitive trying, caught somewhere between earnest and obsessed.  Maybe the difference is just a matter of scale.  Even so sometimes that's all you've got.

That and the dwindling matches.