Progress?

I didn't understand that it would be a physical pain too. A shrinking of the organs or a pressure, piano keys or door bell ringers or a pendulum, against my gut. The feeling of loss that comes across endlessly repeating. I didn't feel this way when my grandfather died, even though his was real death--gone, finished, over. This was only a partial death. Of what I thought could be. Potential.

But then again it is about movement, this loss of mine. Not of the inner organs so much, because that does go away, or lessen, ease up with time. It's about movement of myself, that 91 cm (http://vimeo.com/6913172). My own personal meteorite.

I am terribly afraid to lose it. This sense of loss. How small minded, how limited of me, to fear loss of loss. But if I don't feel loss over what I've lost, then maybe I didn't have it in the first place? It didn't exist? Maybe Nathan, the man I told, quite convincingly, that I love him, didn't exist as I thought. Or maybe I didn't love him. Or maybe those 14 months were an imagined life.

I'm left with a burn on my left inner arm and a cut on my right pointer finger and a feeling that, though I think I'm losing weight, I'm sure I'm gaining it. The feeling that if I control my out, I'll satisfy my in.

Too much thinking, that's what I'm doing. Dear friend Andrew invited me to roller skating. Wonder if that's still a thing.

Movement. . . and thinking about writing again. Moving toward moving again. Through and around and toward something new. Trying not to compare myself to others (ex girlfriends!) and letting go, slowly, of small things (holes, hair, exercise). Trying to write more. Starting now.