Life as an Extreme Sport

I Think It’s Called Progress

I feel oddly sensual tonight. I’m not sure I can place my finger on just *why*, but it’s probably an offbeat combination of things. Were I to attempt to pin it down to anything, it would be:
* having a lovely conversation before going to bed last night
* waking in a completely rested and languid mood before the alarm had a chance to go off
* accomplishing a few important things at work
* having another lovely conversation mid-work day
* writing a poem I’m thoroughly pleased with
* coming home before dawn, eating a real meal, and watching a good show on TV
* lighting a ton of candles and playing good music

For being so terribly used to having a Garfield kind of Monday, my last two Mondays have been very pleasent.

I suppose more to the point, except for being annoyed over the taxes eMail, I’ve not been thinking much at all about you. I no longer look around my apartment and see vestiges of you everywhere I look. I no longer choke up when I see something I bought to give you, but didn’t have a chance to, or I see something you gave me. Admittedy, I still avoid some things – the eMail on my other computer, certain songs (I’m not one to tempt my strength *too* much)…. but I’m avoiding much less. I’ve even gotten to the point of deciding to file the divorce papers myself, if I find I have the money and you’ve not yet done it. I think it’s called progress… I know it’s called healing.

It doesn’t really hurt in a present sense anymore, the thought of divorce. I still get sharp pangs whenever I think about what we had, the memories and the love… but it’s all gone. I still love you, but there is no love between us. There’s *nothing* between us. (I know, I know, that’s what I demanded… and I’m glad I did. I couldn’t have done this any other way.) And I miss you, and what we had, but you know… that’s okay. It’s finally starting to be okay.