*I really honestly do not have words right now. All of this just stumbled from my fingers and I couldn't stop it. It's a bit of a mess, and I apologize, but also I don't apologize.
I don't have words anymore. I just have thoughts and ideas and things to say without thinking, but it only seems to come out as someone else's words. Or just comes out as my words, but they're dumb and awful and exhausting.
I'm not the person I was, and you are not the person you were, and my mom is not the person she was forty years ago today.
And I don't know what it's like to be dry-eyed anymore. I don't know what it's like to be free from my own head and free from my own chains. I know that I'm far from grown up, but I'm somewhere, aren't I? I know I still talk without thinking and procrastinate better than I prepare and care too much what everyone else thinks, but I'm something else, maybe.
And nothing seems to stay inside me anymore. I feel awful when my Complete Works gets handled more than my bible, but I sometimes think they're almost parallel and that's awful blasphemous for me to voice that thought, don't you think?
I wish I had the words for the way I would've looked had you dissected me one year ago.
I'm scared of the things we've let go of -- are you? I'm scared of the things we've grabbed hold of, but they're better things than the things we let go of -- obviously, because we let go of them -- but I'm still here standing naked, "taking guesses at the actual date and time."
I want to be bloody brilliant, like you are bloody brilliant, but I keep getting distracted, and I keep writing things even though they seem to turn out like this.
I'm running thin, but running so fast, and I just keep quoting Imogen and screaming to you, screaming "Here is my heart" and I'm terrified.
But you're here. You're here with me. And sometimes, you are so beautiful that it hurts. And I love you so much. That's the only thing that hasn't changed, yeah? Yeah, everybody? Yeah?
You are good cats, everybody.
We're still just us. We talked like it was a foreign language -- because it almost was -- and then "best friends" wasn't a lie, and I guess that even though we lost pieces of us, we figured out a whole lot more and that's just crazy.
I have Coriolanus in my head and Othello behind my eyes and Titus Andronicus at my fingertips, and I'm screaming the facts of Will in my sleep.
All my love,