The thing I am coming to accept, now in my mid-thirties, is that I will never be known. Not in the full way that I believed ten years ago was possible. That way where I can present my puss-ugly holes and necklace of dead babies and know that I am still wanted, loved more even. That way where the knower looks at me and sees the complexity, puzzle,  pessimism, and life ‘n shit and says, “Yes, I know you,” and I believe it. Someone hungry for me!  The one I imagine at the fire in the loneliest nights and riding thermals beside me on the brightest days. Please, please, PLEASE!!! Don’t fucking mention anything about a “God-shaped hole!” Or Jesus as my BFF that will never let me down. I haven’t given up on spirituality and all that, but I’ve outgrown imaginary friends.

My ex-wife couldn’t handle my dark WAY before I fell in love with someone else. Then it was impossible. The closest thing I’ve had to a soul mate (whom I love in many ways, but never with eros) left my life without a word of explanation. However, the throbbing hurt it caused and thoughtlessness of it fucked the shit out of any comfort I had from believing at least one person knew me. This hope and the hope I had for Heather and I to someday get to a place of deep knowing? Fuck it. I often find a place of santosha, but it is a dark existence and the light of recognition flits in and out like a shooting star fizzling into the atmosphere.

I am fucking getting tired of looking up.  And if and where I find the god that loves me like my heart needs he/she/they/it will be living in the shit piles.

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ps – Don’t worry about me. I’m fine and I don’t want to talk about it.