Connected together forever. I’ve been re-reading your words. As I’ve done numerous times since you shared them with me. I’m saddened and frustrated at myself, tempted to use my recovery from my last as an excuse as to why it was the way it was, but that would not be truthful.

I didn’t understand the depth of what we shared until I was so far removed from it that all I could do was miss it, and miss you deeply.

The line in your memoir, when our temescal Sharman had shared with you his knowledge about love and caution. He was right. There was so much deep-seeded confusion about what the right thing to do was, because of reasons I would like to share with you one day, in person.

“The point is, not to resist the flow. You go up when you’re supposed to go up and down when you’re supposed to go down. When you’re supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you’re supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom. When there’s no flow, stay still. If you resist the flow, everything dries up. If everything dries up, the world is darkness” – Haruki Murakami

I don’t believe I would be where I am now, without those experiences. And while I feel complete sorrow about the pain I created for you and for me, I cannot help but trust it too was necessary for reasons unbeknownst to us at the time, and I believe that you would feel the same.

I know you and I both rely on the universe to deposit us in the correct place, at the correct time, however I must wonder, is there a time for action? How do I balance this with the deep passion I possess, so strong I am willing to risk the pain. 

Like a child I want to stomp my feet and cry out for the thing that I want. I want to meet you. See you. Hold you. Kiss you. Lie in your arms while you stroke my back. Devour you and make you lie there incapacitated. I don’t want to wait.

I’ve tried to let you go, lightly, heavily, any which way possible, and each time I am nearly there, you re-enter my world. So I am only to believe now, that letting you go is not something I must do. I am a horse at the gate, waiting for someone to free me so I can run wildly into your arms.

Heeding Murakami’s advice I ask myself – this time I’m in, is it one of action? Or one of stillness? I know the answer, but I am becoming impatient.