These days, it seems like my every muscle aches. But it's the best kind of ache--unless you're really into pregnancy, birth, afterbirth... but that's not so great, from what i hear--it is the ache of progress. The pain, when you move even a little bit, that tells you you're getting somewhere. I'm getting somewhere. Even if i don't have a job; even if i am a squatter, i am doing something and getting results. It's a beautiful thing.

It's a beautiful day, despite the cold, the snow, the clouds. A perfect haze shrouds the peaks and makes me feel a little more terrestrial. And every twig on every branch of every tree is highlighted by a dusting of crystaline white. But still, there is the cold.

I still feel cold. Inside, i do. And i cannot help wondering, too, if he will ever stop loving me. But i am over it, at the same time. It tears me up inside, but not enough to really hurt. What purpose does that serve? Why hurt at all if it isn't enough to prompt a change, a correction, a course of healing? Maybe it isn't even hurt--just an ache that i've already learned to live with. It's just a part of me now, nothing to be done about it. He worries me, all the same. His dwelling, his passive aggressive nature when i talk to him--ever since i told him i didn't want to try.

Love is a dangerous exercises, often resulting in a different kind of ache.

I suppose now, i'll go to my little room. I'll take off these insulating clothes--burning incense so thick that it stings my eyes. And i will bathe in the fragrant smog.
I will eat my fill of triscuts and left-over pizza.
And tomorrow, i will get on some machine and sweat it all off.
And i will ache.

Oh, how i will ache.