One midsummer night in 2016, I sat down to my daily work of writing an attempt at memoir. In a moment of inspiration, I began writing a piece on different kinds of love (eros, philia, etc.). In the afterglow of 3 pages of flow, I felt the familiar sense of release that often hit me, the self-satisfaction of being able to pen down feelings long stuck and unnamed. As much as I wanted to “set it and forget it” as I would do for chapters at a time, this one would not let up on me.
What a difference a year made.
People change. Feelings change. Motivations and purposes change. Hearts move out of alignment. A spotlight shines in the self’s crawlspace on those beliefs and events mildewed and dusty. When I woke from a long bout of malaise and periods of breathing in resentments, there was the realization that those words would have been better served if they applied to me and all the ways I show myself love. There was the realization that I’m much too old for acting like a petulant child when I don’t get my way. There was the realization that stonewalling or walking away in heat of a moment is unacceptable, that not asking for what I want always yields nothing, that silences are as good as acceptances that can lead to bitterness if unchecked. There was the realization that I may be on borrowed time with no more chances for oopsies and do-overs regarding matters of the heart, mine or anyone else’s.