It's that weird season again. The one that is laced with memory and fabrication, coziness and outsider status. It's the season where I start working out differently - wanting to feel my body and its limits more. As if pushing to failure will help me realize where I stand. What I'm capable of. What results are those deep and particular cravings. In sex, in food, in comfort. All of it.
Tonight I am writing this with muscles aching, a bag of Takis (Fuego) and the kind of Kinder Egg that requires you to scoop milk-and-white chocolate out of half of an "eggshell" within reach. I've been going back and forth between the two: My mouth on fire and the heat being put out by the thick sweetness of the unreal, but not necessarily good, chocolate.
A few feet away from me, a stocking with my name on it that arrived as a gift from a friend in New York hangs over a non-functional fireplace with a padlock on it. There is seasonal symbolism in there, somewhere, but I can't quite place it.
Meanwhile, most of the day has been spent talking to friends who live far away and listening to podcasts on this week's parsha/parasha/parashat. I'll never be clear on how to spell it.
Reading and listening and learning and reflecting.
Eating and fucking and lifting and thinking.
I am thinking, tonight, about the minds that I covet.
I am thinking, tonight, of the minds that I miss.
I am thinking of the boy who truly loved Genet and the way he would wipe his nose.
I am thinking of the masc who told me of their former lover who liked to be wrapped in Saran Wrap.
I am thinking of the secrets I have held for people.
I am thinking of the people who wanted to hold mine.
How many Decembers have you had in your lifetime so far?
Can you remember them all?
k.
(image: akiphotogrpahthings tumblr)
