I like to think the idea of love is incomplete until you can show that person, uninhibitedly, that you are angry at them. Softening anger is a compromise that says, I'm uncomfortable around you.
The foremost thing on my mind lately, like usual, is writing. I have to perform my poems for 13 minutes on January 25, and it's sad that I don't know of one thing I would be proud reading. My impulse is to write madly until then, but ideally, I'd like to believe in the strength of my own words organically, without being forced to write something. I had a great conversation about writing with the other person who's reading with me on Jan. 25 and whom I'm introducing. I'd never talked with her before, but I feel like we instantly understood each other. I wish I had the opportunity for more conversations like this. I also talked with one of my old friends here through email on Thursday. We've estranged ourselves from each other because we hurt each other so badly, and I feel like part of that is healed, maybe. She is ambitious for the future, and I realized that my own version of ambition for myself might be shriveled and atrophied because I haven't taken enough risks as I grew into myself over the past few years. I'm still afraid of risks. By risks, I generally mean interacting with the world in a meaningful way.
I have a little fever, which is mildly enjoyable for the strange images I'm allowed in my sleep, but mostly obnoxious because my life necessitates that I be a coherent person as much as possible.
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