I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
A note found in the pocket of my journal, undated:
Every day the waves would wash over me. I am dog-paddling in a sea of longing, regret, loss and grief, looking desperately for safe harbor and finding none. I miss him and I miss us. Every night I dream of him - not consciously, but he turns up in guises I immediately recognize. In my dreamscape he is a lover, a pauper, a villain, a savior, everything and nothing. When we talk on the phone I freeze up - I listen to his voice, barely registering what he's saying.
The longing for him is not unbearable - here I am, bearing it - but it is there, a heavy, dark lump that roots in my chest and reaches up to strangle my throat.
