Tags
Yesterday we had picture perfect weather here. Not too warm; not too cool. Just right; my morning waterfront walk was kissed with the sun’s warmth—life was good. Is good.
I had a moment of searing clarity while kicking about the odd bit of ‘sea glass.’ I love finding the broken glass pieces that have spent so much time tumbling in the surf that any defined, sharp edges are worn smooth. Sometimes I try to guess what larger glass object the shards once defined.
I think we’re like those broken bits of glass; life has a way of wearing away our rough edges. Nowadays I’m not as quick to anger as I was, say—in my forties, whenever I felt wronged or manipulated. At this age my anger won’t get me anywhere. Too, I’m mature enough to steer clear of situations that might anger me. Around the time one needs corrective eyewear is when the ability to really see people kicks in. But I digress.
It was somewhere between examining broken bits of glass and picking up the random shoreline litter that I had a startling revelation: my anger is repressed grief. My grief is repressed anger. This truth needs more examination for sure.
In other news the internet has revealed that my ‘ghoster’ now resides with friends and/or relatives 36 miles west of the city. I Google mapped the house; I suppose that verges dreadfully near stalking but I prefer to frame my search for any information as a lover spurned and hurting.
Now I have a location for him. Now I know he’s safe and not living in some low rent section of town. Now I don’t have to fear running into him. Now I see him opening that front door—-stepping onto the porch stoop, quiet and unassuming—-with zero fucks for how I’m doing.
He will come back. Rome needs Egypt. And as Elizabeth Taylor as ‘Cleopatra’ states to her beloved servant, Apollodoros—-“I AM Egypt.”