I recently met someone that opened my eyes about life again. She has shown me that I have a long time left in my life that I should not give up on things that I feel passionate about.
I lost quite a bit of myself when I lived in South Carolina. It was a struggle everyday to appear happy and confident. I was angry and sad and stopped writing and stopped caring.
Even though I know that this relationship may not ever be more than a friendship, I am starting to feel passion again in life. I see that there are people that can inspire you or be influential. I see that my current relationship does not have any of that.
When I told my wife the other day that I was starting to write again, she told me, I should and that was that.
I know it is hard for her to talk about these things. I used to stay up late with her and read her stories from the books that I was reading, and used to talk to her about life and love and living.
Now she is in bed by 8 and I no longer feel she is interested in what I have to say. I know that she loves me, but is it that she is content rather than passionate?
I feel like I need to write to this new person and reveal my passion and emotions but I know that is not really what I should be doing. So I am thankful for her showing this part of me again, but now I wonder why I ever lost it to begin with.
Emotionally I am an empty box. A robot if you will. I get up every morning to the same routine and go to sleep every night to the same routine. My weekends are no exception other than I do not have to go to work.
I began writing again, I began reading some of my favorite literature again, I began listening to my favorite jazz again, and while I know it is because of this new person, it makes me wonder what have I been missing all these years.
I lost something in South Carolina, a big chunk of my life, but as this new person told me the other day, the best is yet to come.
O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again, as first I knew you in the timeless valley, where we shall feel ourselves anew, bedded on magic in the month of June. There was a place where all the sun went glistening in your hair, and from the hill we could have put a finger on a star. Where is the day that melted into one rich noise? Where the music of your flesh, the rhyme of your teeth, the dainty languor of your legs, your small firm arms, your slender fingers, to be bitten like an apple, and the little cherry-teats of your white breasts? And where are all the tiny wires of finespun maidenhair? Quick are the mouths of earth, and quick the teeth that fed upon this loveliness. You who were made for music, will hear music no more: in your dark house the winds are silent. Ghost, ghost, come back from that marriage that we did not foresee, return not into life, but into magic, where we have never died, into the enchanted wood, where we still lie strewn on the grass. Come up into the hills, O my young love: return. O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.
Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward Angel