And if you don't love me, let me go.

Listening to The Decemberists' "Engine Driver" incessantly. New mantra emerging in the chorus...everything in my life is so uncertain--even my love--a larger thing these days than it ever has felt previously. It scares me. I remember Zampano's chest breaking through chains and think of my heart--when I love, it hurts.

I have my Ipod on (well, no Hank's Ipod, to be accurate), and am sitting on my knees in the floor of the apartment, wondering. I have a good cry coming on--the result of accepting things I do not understand.

A poem is wanting me to write it, and I don't know how to begin. I feel as though my face is pleading with every other face it sees, asking, "What IS this? What does your face want from my face? Why do we bother even acknowledging one another?"

Will anyone ever be worth it? Worth the awkward moments in elevators, the "How are you"'s to sales clerks, the being polite to the old and the handicapped and the stinky people with strange wardrobe decisions (stories we later relate to a group of drunken friends who pretend to hate other people along with us)?

I fear that my writing has slipped away forever--that I will never again be able to construct a coherent thought with the potential to create a connection somewhere else inside the obscurity that is experience.

Showboating, mimicry.