Friday, May 27th, 2011
(airplane: SLC to CDG)
A loss of interest in food and eating has arisen in me again. It all seems like so much effort. This is just over the past few days, but already I can tell it’s going to stick.
I wonder if anyone out there has ever kept a diary/journal without once hoping that it would be published, if only posthumously. I know it’s not the ONLY reason I keep one–it is helpful, or at least interesting, to look back over what I’ve written (educational)–but of course I also think that my words are fit for print. That my inner workings are universally fascinating. Or should be.
I need to write more. Haven’t written in [my journal] in any REAL sense for almost two months, and it was a month before that.
That’s okay, though. I’ve been absorbing myself in books, soaking up pages and pages of other people’s lives, and just waiting. And I’m okay with that, suddenly okay with LOTS of things. Like not packing a favorite cardigan for a month in France (or any pads), not writing in my journal very often, not having finished “setting up” my apartment. It’s all okay. I do what I can.
Bigger things, too: minimal plans for the future, minimal funds for four weeks in Europe. Overlapping loves…
And a new love, for myself, that crept in so slowly–first leniency, then acceptance, and now something tending towards nurturing (if you can believe it!). Kevin would be so proud. I know I am.