sometimes it is too much. like there’s nothing I can do to stop. being loved is overwhelming; feeling unworthy of that love brings guilt. it’s the way a song you hate plays at the supermarket but you hum to it anyway, because you’re just there and what else can you do – it’s not that bad after all, especially considering where you are and the line in front of you. it’s the way you call to say you remembered them today, that you are just wondering what they are doing – you don’t want to say that you love them, because calling already is effort enough. and then you get stuck with a question: how many suffering can they go through? just say it already. they are old; every time you call them you think: will this be the last time? of course you’re not wishing it, but a piece of you thinks that if you ask this every time, it will make you feel not as bad when it actually happens. you predicted it; you sensed it. you did what you could do. you called them some days before and you said you loved them.

sometimes it is too much. like the way a old woman starts a conversation for no reason at all. she tells you that she sings in a choir. how nice. she notices your instrument. she compliments you: that’s so good that you are in touch with art. I answer, a little ashamed that I am probably not even half as connected as I want to/could be – well, it’s what gets me going. some people get emotional when seeing children. I cry on bus rides, among strangers, when seeing elderly people. I really give a great cry – I do that thing where you try to hold back; so you get teary eyed, one tear coming down each time; red nose and puffy face. it’s nothing, don’t worry. there’s something in my eye. I actually think I am allergic to this perfume I am wearing. yeah, I should definitely throw that out. or, you know, give to someone not allergic. it’s a shame because it was a gift. a shame, indeed.

listening while writing: The Beatles Black Album from Boyhood