foxtongue | trying to put the pin back into the grenade

An Animated Description Of Mr Maps

Animated x-ray examinations of speech

It was a rough weekend, tumbled dry, scratchy eyed. I spent a night on the couch, tapping at computer keys, unable to sleep, singing my sorrow to the sky. The next day I packed, putting all of my things into a case, slamming doors while wrapping objects in paper, the better to save the glass. I felt lost, an army of emotion without will to fight.

We went out, we walked, visited with friends and did not touch. The sun was out, the weather sweet as feathers, but things were not resolved. Returning home, suffering spiraled in again, wanting another twelve hours to be driven out. We do not argue in ritual. It is exceptional, infrequent, strange. Uncomfortable like our struggles are against nature. He is auto-defensive, I am as vulnerable as a weapon. There are cycles. Patterns of past relationships, themes of thrown history, locked doors, and memories of faces.

In retrospect, we are growing to understand how to rarify the process. Quicken it, speed ourselves to closure, comfort, and need. If, world forbid, it happens again, we will not find pain as sharp an obstacle. This is twice, yet already we are faster. Fourty-eight hours is better than a month of weeks. I am wrung out, exhausted, and I'm sure he feels the same, but we found ways to mend what was broken, as well as affection. I am thankful for our effort, for our love. There is no better victory.