Let me preface this post by saying – I am exhausted. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Wednesday and a three day weekend of walking until my calves ached and my trunk threatened to evict any and all of the junk is finally starting to catch up to me.
That probably means I should leave this post in a draft somewhere.
But I’ve left too much in the unspoken and unread folder lately, and the resulting cluserfuck inside my head is getting to be too much.
This weekend was good. And bad. It was, at times, the pinnacle of perfection – filled with new sights and new people in a city that I adore. It was laughter and old friends, holding hands and breathing deeply. And it was also, at other times, nothing short of awful. It was tears and sleepless nights and angry words I still cannot reconcile with beliefs that I hold dear.
For the first time in my life, I find myself completely confused by the extremes.
I live my life at one end of a spectrum. As the tattoo on my back reminds me, the world is either comedic or tragic. The existence of one extreme has always served to enhance, rather than negate, the experience of another.
I am not afraid to cry because I know the joy of a deep, soulful laugh is just around the corner.
Perhaps I am getting too old for the pendulum swing.
I want to tell you about Jared and I playing tourist with Poppy, Dawg, Robin and Rachel. I want to tell you about having my face airbrushed and accidentally groping myself during the Hot Blogger photo session. I want to tell you about how you should never walk the stupid fucking bridge. I want to share with you the highlights of the more than 1300 pictures I took this weekend.
And I will. I will.
But I also need to take a moment to pull apart the good memories from the painful ones. I need to find a way to be honest with myself about everything that happened this weekend. I need to figure out how to take the good and the bad at face value, without letting one bleed all over the other.
How can a relationship be so good in one breath, and crushing in the next? How can an embrace be sincere and genuine, and the flash of disgust in the eyes vibrant and cutting?
How can both sides of the coin be accurate?
It seems there gets to be a point when the swing is so wide, the canon between two cliffs so wide, that it is impossible to cling to both sides. Failure to choose leaves you free falling in the abyss in between, nothing to believe in or stand firm on. And yet choosing a side, a perspective to focus your eyes on, requires an exercise in delusion. You can’t fully invest yourself in the one without pretending the other is the lie.
And so, instead of choosing, I’m free falling.