I love you as certain dark things are to be loved...in secret, between the shadow and the soul

It's Valentine's Day.


I'm not really a Valentine's Day kind of girl. I think...in the history of my relationships, I've ever really only gotten fucking jazzed about ONE Valentine's day, and to be fair, it was fun as fuck. For me, anyway.


But, it's all the buzz on my Facebook feed right now, and while I should be working, I have instead been staring out the window, quietly rubbing my pendant, and drifting lazily between being lost in thought, and overly present.


I think, sometimes, there are things and people that just break you. Perhaps being shattered is what you need, and you don't see it until later, but most often, it's devastating. You can spend your entire life trying to pick up the pieces and put yourself back together, but the seams are obvious. The Japanese have a philosophy turned artform dedicated to this called Kintsugi. When something breaks, they highlight the broken bits by putting them back together and filling the cracks with gold. The bowl with cracks is far more beautiful than the one without. Cracks show history...they show that things have been used, and loved, and that the items had purpose. Being broken doesn't mean something can't be used for the exact same thing again.


I wonder what the bowls think of that.


I'm spending tonight with Allen and Stevie. I'm going to go buy us all footie pajamas, and something to make for dinner, and we'll sit at my house, do drugs, and watch movies. These are the people I love the most in the world (in the closest proximity, that is. Not to devalue them...they're fucking high on the list of people I love most in the world, regardless of distance), and I think it fits that we're spending Valentine's Day together.


Every once and awhile, I become very, very, VERY secretly sappy (I don't need Valentine's day to do it, either), and I read love letters from famous people, I look through Found for love letters from not famous people, and I just ravage poetry. I indulged a bit of that today, and felt slightly sad for a few moments. I've tried to stay away from the old, powerful favorites (I'm looking at you, Neruda), but they always get me, in the end. I once described reading the things I love over and over giving me an overwhelming feeling of coming home. More and more often, certain things feel like coming home to an empty house. It takes a lot of getting used to, and I don't have any gold to fill the emptiness with.


I think...I think everybody must have something like this. Maybe that's why Valentine's Day is such a big production for some people. It's just a way to fill the cracks and show off that you still work just like you used to.


Virginia Woolf once wrote, "Just in case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you." And now I'm writing it, too.