Itchy in the world. There are people who know how I feel. Chris Ware, Adrian Tomine, Annie Proulx and sometimes you although only in your stories and not in the real world it seems. I move around the world and I see other people pretending. They mostly rely on cliche. There are conversations that occur and nothing is really said but everyone leaves and seems relatively happy with the empty words and the pat responses. It is how we learn to be in the world. Sometimes I play the game for a while until I cannot bear it anymore. Then the honesty returns and people stop and stare and change the conversation.
With you I am always honest. I have never lied to you intentionally. I have started as I hope to continue.
I wander lonely in a world of other people's houses. Even my own home is not mine, it is slowly being transformed into somewhere where I must be restrained. Clean surfaces. Pristine benchtops and nowhere for me to hide the crime of my clutter.
I retreat to the complicated honesty of our conversations, a shelter of sorts, and one that I have built up over a steady period of months. This is a place where I walk naked and won't be judged. I am not judged. I am astonished by this because I judge myself so harshly.
Outside the shelter of our conversations, outside the warm hug of my marriage, outside in the world of other people's houses, I walk, lost and lonely and misunderstood.
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