Back in black

Rain in my eyes. Coming out of the black.

I walked out of the terminal, and into the arms of this gusty darkness. The driver said something about how glad he was that it was raining. I knew what he was trying to say. I know this place. He just meant that he was glad that it was raining, because that meant that it was warmer. That is usually the choice, this time of year: Rain and mild, or clear and freezing. The wind is a permanent bonus.

Maybe it just suits me to feel alone. To yearn for closeness. For warmth. Why else do I keep landing back in that position?

I walked down by the harbor. Skipped on large boulders, fed pebbles to the ocean. I had missed the sea. It was this strange shade of dark emerald green. Rumbling. Commanding respect. Straining for calmness. Disarmingly enamoring.

Your mind is a sea of turmoil. In its natural state. You flow with your emotions, until you decide to try to tame them. You go 'enough is enough!' or 'I will cut you down, because you do not make sense' or 'because this hurts'. But hurting is part of it. How else can you really know that you are alive?

At noon, I went and gave blood. My blood pressure was 144 over 70. What? I have always been 125 over 60-something. The nurse was a beautiful older woman. She used to be a beautiful, young woman. You can always tell. No matter how old or how fat they get. How much they've drunk or smoked or stressed or whatever. You can always tell. Not because you can necessarily picture what they used to look like. But because no beautiful woman will stay oblivious to her own beauty through her whole life. At some point, they all realize it. They become aware of it. Some flaunt it, use it. Others shy away, try to hide it. Or over-compensate. Try to be 'normal'. Luckily, some just don't care. A few don't even care at all. But they know. They all know. And you can see it. In their eyes.

She listened to the shock of this mild thirty-something that he just might not be all that young with a perfect 120/60 anymore. Smiled. And said gently "why don't I try this again, the machine tends to act up sometimes." She strapped me in again. Hit the button. I closed my eyes and breathed more calmly. "See? That did not hurt, now did it?" 126 over 71. I let out a sigh of relief. And then she said "Consistency is bliss." I instinctly said "Really?" She smiled. "Yes." "In all applications?" Another smile. She was quiet for a while. Then she looked up. "Yes, in every application. Some people always want change. Excitement. But being able to depend on your life being the way you think it will be is a luxury."

And so many people actually think that. No sudden changes. No unexpected financial challenges. No new shower to learn how to not scold you. No new language to let you fuck-up and say a million new stupid things in. No new climate. No new laws. No new people. New relationships. New smiles. New cries. Just peace. And predictability.

And who am I to question that? Am I doing all that well? With my ever-restless self? With my thirst, my curiosity, my compassion, my lust for life?

No, I am back in black.