Dear Pneuma,

I had a grandmother whose bathroom was done up in purple and green. Her sink and bathtub were lavender; her carpet was purple, and the tile around the walls was swirly green marble. Looking at my new stationary, I cannot help but make a comparison. Nevertheless, I am not too proud to make due with what I have, so purple and green it shall be for a while longer.

I find myself feeling less anxious today. Maybe a little less coffee and a little more breakfast helps. My Beloved helps as well. Somehow, everything that is going so poorly in morning light, is going so well in the dark closeness of our bed. We can hold hands and speak. My words suddenly have meaning. My fears suddenly have comfort. My hopes suddenly have warmth and nurture.

How did I live before I found my Beloved? How did I close out the ragged ends of days? How did I confront the despair, and stay still in the loneliness? I think I didn't. I think I ran, angry and empty, from place to place, and from job to job. I think I breathed panic into my marrow until, even now, I cannot properly define myself without the adrenaline surge of riding the edge of destruction. Who am I, if the world goes on functioning without me? Why am I, if my past community doesn't feel my loss? What is my purpose-of-ness, if the sun will set regardless of whether I worked a day beneath it, or spent the day hiding from its light?

I have been the center of my Universe. I have known the error of that perception. My Beloved has caused me to live outside that perception. I still find it difficult. It seems it is hard to leave the canyons we have carved-to change the direction in which we have flowed, and carve new canyons across country we do not know.

Thanks for listening, Pneuma
As always, know you are loved,

Cobalt Dreams