strange advice.

"worry about being yourself later" is what i was told a few months ago. it's strange advice, i think, but not necessarily bad advice, i suppose. these past few months have been a whirlwind of activity and happenings, and this past weekend, this woman i love stood in front of a podium of her peers and former professors and assorted friends and family and read a story, and i sat there, and i knew that everyone else in the room knew how good it was, how good she is, and there was no end to the people who wanted to say hi, wanted to talk with her, wanted to tell her parents about the writer she is, and i experienced a moment, or moments, of bafflement, as it occurred to me that at the end of the day, she put her hand in mine, as we walked out of that building. these days, our respective worries have very little to do with each other, but very much with how the circumference of our lives brush in seemingly negligible ways, just forming the venn diagram, the intersections where we spend much of our time. and i am more happy than not. it's true. but i'm feeling a little unraveled and disheveled. my familiarity with my life has shifted, and i don't really have the words to describe this mood i'm in today where i'm thinking about that some, wondering about where it went. i mean, not bad, just, what? i don't know. things are ending for me, things have ended, things are continuing, and that big thing is starting sooner than i'm comfortable with, really. and i've been so goddamn tired lately. and the thing about the advice, the thing about that is that i knew that she meant that i would be myself regardless, because how am i not, you know? it's just that i like to play it safe most of the time, i don't venture very far outside of what i know, but here i am, and there's so much i don't know about here. and it's a little scary, and not as snug as where i'm used to, just because i'm commuting a lot, and neither place feels entirely like home these days. but then, you know, she takes my hand and puts her head on my shoulder and says, "let's go", and that's all it takes. that's all it takes for me to forget about the discomfort of the realization just a moment before of who i am not.