I have a strange birth defect. I was born with an abnormally large right tonsil, about the size of a golf ball. If I believed in cause-effect relationships, I could conclude that your right tonsil must be where your conscience is housed, because it seems that I was born with an abnormally strong conscience. Either that, or I have begun to take my mantra of "I am nothing if not honest" far too seriously, because I really thought it might have been true, until I told him.

I have to admit I am still half of nothing (which would still make me nothing, in fact) because I couldn't tell him everything. I told him there was someone here that I wanted to see, I told him that we'd been spending a lot of time together recently... I didn't tell him how we had spent some of our time. I did tell him that if he felt hurt or uncomfortable that I would not pursue this new thing, and I meant it - his friendship means a hell of a lot to me. I probably knew though that there was no way he would put up such an objection, because as far as I am concerned now he has put himself in rational mode and will not allow his feelings to dictate his conduct towards me... although when I asked him to be sure of this he asked me if I thought he was lying. Defensive. If I didn't know any better, I would say this was a surefire indication that I am probably hurting him more than he will ever let on...

But I don't feel so explosive anymore, I don't feel so dishonest. I think, even if toes are stepped on and feelings are hurt, it is always better this way. Though I could enter into the whole 'truth is relative' argument again... but I won't.

Poor Boy though, two revelations in two weeks... and I know that breaking up with your girlfriend is slightly less painful than finding out she is seeing someone else, so soon afterward... it can't be pleasant. Tonight I was reading back again and although it feels like an age I realised it was only two weeks ago yesterday that I broke up with the Boy (officially that is, though we both know it has been over a lot longer)... only two weeks ago tonight that I extended a finger to the Writer. I really can't do slow, can I? I have no self control when it comes to relationships - I decide what I want and then I don't see the point in waiting around. Everything always moves... Too. Damn. Fast. If this is a lesson I must learn, it won't be this time around.

It really felt like more time had passed... but that was because I'd been seeing him more than one night in two. I still don't know him, still haven't really scratched the surface... true, it feels like I do, it feels comfortable. Should I be more rational, or should I stop trying to rationalise?

As if my rational mind actually has any bearing on the decisions I make anyway...

I've known the Writer maybe a month really, though he remembers me from before he knew me and I do remember the mysterious guy at the end of the bar who wouldn't talk to anyone... in the space of two weeks that we've become somehow entangled, we have already slept together. Is this a new world record? Um, no. Does it concern me? No.

I come to the crunch and I don't really want to write about it. In short, Friday was a tad fucked up and more than a tad too drunk, while Saturday was intense and infinitely closer to how it should be in my ideal world. There was a lot more to the weekend than that but I don't really want to go into it just now... I'm gonna let it lie.

I saw the Writer briefly on Sunday but by this stage I was descending into the throes of a nasty flu thing... and even that aside, I felt that it would be best not to see him for a couple of days if for no other reason than to assert to myself that I still own my space... and to let the boys have their time, because things have been getting decidedly couple-y and it's not fun for everyone...

Though last night we were chatting, about writing, strangely enough. How imprecise words are. How they can't begin to describe life, the universe and everything at its essence... so true, so I asked him why he wrote, and for some reason I wasn't happy with his answers... how could he believe in it as an effective way of expressing his thinking to the world (let alone bringing about change) even while lamenting it's imperfections and imprecisions?

Maybe he doesn't know (at least not in a way that words could express) and I'm sure I don't either... but I am aware of the fact that my writing is part of a futile mission, my strange desire to pin things down and make them sensible even though I know I never will entirely, at least not using words to do so... but different tools for different tasks. I am willing to think my way through the big things, to have ideas too vague and voluminous to express except in the very rarest of circumstances, but I don't want to use this energy on the mundane and the everyday - as far as that stuff is concerned, I'd rather just spill contents of brain onto page, rinse and repeat as required. These things that are here are important, yes, but in a different way to other things, Matters of Consequence (must get that book back of CoWorker). Being a visual person, I feel like writing helps me make some sense of things, the things that you can occasionally find a way of quantifying... but as for the quality, that can only exist in thought.

I also told him that I don't necessarily make a definite distinction between what is real and what is imaginary, which he told me makes me a bit loony. Heh... I've been called worse, and I think lunacy has a certain mystique about it, don't you?

I don't keep real good company, that's all that keeps me sane

To those of you who know the quote... a penny for your thoughts, if you please - why do you write?

Before After

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