Is it a good or bad thing to always look for the meaning in things? I was once told nothing is inherently good or bad, that it’s just the way you choose to think about it. I like this, because it pulls me away from self-doubt, it stops me from questioning myself and my thoughts. There is a purpose in my meaning-making. When I get home from the bookstore and I start wondering why I always buy books that confuse me, it helps to remember there might be a meaning for this, but it’s never a bad one if I don’t want it to be. I hold the paperback in my hands and examine the pages, the lack of chapters, the odd divisions and abrupt breaks in the lines. I start reading. I stop. I try again. I remember the excerpt that sat beside the book, “I know I need a structure full of holes so I can always find a place for myself on the page, inhabit it; I have to remember never to put in more than is necessary, never finish or adorn.” Ah, meaning!
I always want to know there is a space. I want to fill it. Don’t give me a cup full to the brim, I need to add milk. Don’t give me full anything, I need to add love. I think this is also why books have margins.
Nobody is full. Everybody has room for a little warm, milky love.
You said, “Don’t give up on me,”
but in hindsight,
always in hindsight,
what you were really saying was,
“Don’t let me give up on myself.”
I tried. But it had nothing to do with me.
A man standing beside me holding a cup of black coffee in his dry hands tells me that trying is no good. He says, “Don’t try, just do.” I give a courtesy smile but I want to tell him there are some things you can’t do because they aren’t yours to do. And that this is okay, this is life. He tells me to have a nice day, and I refrain from spilling a sarcastic, “I’ll try.” His coffee still has room and his heart is in a good place and having a good day is something I can do more than try.
You wanted to fill things too. You wanted to fill yourself.
Did you have a hard time finding space in me? I spend a lot of time in cafes filling my margins. I know sometimes I make it look like I have no space, but nobody is full. Everybody has room for a little warm, milky love.
Recently I was navigating loss and I thought, do I get to call this real loss? How do I find my way through if I can’t call it loss? Then I remember, I get to decide what I call it, and I know nothing is good or bad, but this is loss. And today, loss is bad. Loss is sad. And I fall back to the soft, the soft that draws empathy from my blood. And today, empathy is good, because I will fill myself with it.