you blinked

August 16, 2012

Every day after work I get into my car and make the pilgrimage towards home. It's become my little quiet ritual where my brain can float off into the distance, and sometimes I think about things, and sometimes I think about air gently entering each of my ear canals aka, nothing at all. Peace love and Iron Maiden.

But as I drive I can feel it bubbling up into my calm space, ohnohereitgoesagain. Something settles into my stomach and wraps itself around my organs, filling up my body until it's so heavy I have to concentrate to keep breathing. It weighs my foot down against the floor and pushes until I glance at the dashboard and realize I'm pushing eagerly faster southward even though logic says I'm in no hurry at all.

There's a magnet inside of me that activates at the same time each day, pulling me inexorably back towards him. I can't explain why, after twelve years, my insides physically cry out for us to be reunited. It makes no sense and I don't tell anyone about it, because that's fucking weird. Is there a word for the kind of codependency where your entire body demands to be in a 20 foot radius of another, but once you get there you don't need to touch you just know that everything is right again?

I can't explain why our particles resonate at just the right frequency, or why this still happens like it did the first week I felt it. I don't know how we became opposite pieces of the same magnet, if it was always this way or if it's developed over time. I don't know what triggers it or why, just that it happens every single day. I don't know if he feels this way too or if it's just me, and wouldn't that make it stranger, if it were just me on one side of a magnet reclaiming its mate?

I don't really know much.
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