One Hundred and Sixty Three

I can't help but think


you would know what I want.


If, somewhere along the way, we hadn't lost each other
if you hadn't stopped looking for me
if I hadn't dropped the white flag
You would be an immense help
right now.

You know me.

One Hundred and Sixty Two

It hasn't gone away.

I thought it would.
Actually...
I don't know if I honestly thought it would.
I know I was okay if it didn't come back.
I think I'm still okay if it doesn't come back.
I don't think I need it, back.

It hasn't gone away, my second guesses about programs. It hasn't gone away, my exhaustion with all of it. It hasn't gone away, my laissez-faire attitude towards writing for the stage. This feeling of not wanting to study writing, day in and day out. This unstoppable feeling of placing writing so much farther down my list of worries, and cares, and priorities.
It isn't that it isn't important.
It isn't that I had a traumatic experience.
It isn't that I'm scared of rejection. (I don't think.)

I think I've just lost a bit of care.
I think I've genuinely lost care, in it.
I think I just don't
want

to wake up every morning
and have to write
have to improve
have to listen to what people say about these words.


That doesn't sound fun, anymore.
And it doesn't sound important, to me.
and I know I've felt this way for a while.
And it hasn't gone away.

One Hundred and Sixty One

I felt you, today.

I've missed drawing so much lately. It started in the summer, I'd missed the quiet, simple challenge of curves and lines and shades. Every body is similar, there is nothing surprising, and yet there is, to the trained, cautious, patient eye, every body is remarkable and distinct, every twist of skin and curve and fold, everything is new yet familiar yet pliable. I remember when the models would move, but so subtly, just to stretch themselves, and nothing changed in my perspective. How trained they were, to understand the human body so well. It's so different from writing. But you knew that. You knew that it's so different, such a different grip on a pen, to charcoal. Precise strokes, is all they are. Imitations of life. Some closer than others.

I felt you, today, right beside me at times. "Don't forget," you said in my ear, as I made the same mistake I always do with the neck. I was very rusty, I kept messing up the waist, and I couldn't get the right breast right. But you reached out and stilled my frustrated hand and told me to move on, continue with the fabric, don't get so bogged down in what you can't do. I shaded just as well as I always do, kept my wrist loose and fingers tight. "Looser," you said to me, when I was doing the forearm. By the fourth time I'd erased the neck I wanted to give up completely, but you gripped my hand over my pencil and told me I was doing the best I could. No one's judging.

It isn't the best, the finished product, I still have a long way to go. But I always did, I was never the best. But that's not the point, is it. That's not really the point of drawing the human figure, to be the best. Only to try your best. And when it was done, I held it from arm's length and you put your hand on my shoulder and said, "It's a good one. Keep working at it." The head isn't as tilted as it should be, and I gave up on the left thigh.

Keep working at it, you always said. Nothing's ever finished. Maybe writing is, some written pieces, there's a finish line, when you can't add more. But there's always work to be done on the human figure. You are not the one to feel when it's done. You are not the one to show this invisible faith in yourself, or to ask someone to lend you the authority to say Yes. Yes, this is beautiful. And done.

It isn't. You're never done with the human figure, not really. You have to be patient, precise, understanding. And most importantly of all, take all the time you need.

One Hundred and Sixty

I had a dream about you, the other night. I saw you in a French cinema as it ended and I walked out, strolling along the Seine river. And you chased after me, the way you did so many years ago, put your hand on my shoulder. We chatted awkwardly, then fell back into that ease we always had, and you smiled, and you asked me where I was going. To a bakery, of course. You came along and we walked beside one another, and you filled a hole inside me that I didn't know was there, again.
"I'm glad you're here," I said to you, "I'm glad you found me."
I miss you.
More and more, with every day that goes by.





I had a dream about you, too.
Immediately after Parisian walks, I dreamt we met at a party. Figures. I saw you approaching, so surprisingly friendly. I tried, so hard, to ignore you. Pretend like I was preoccupied. Walked out of the room when you skipped in. But you eventually turned me around with a smile, put your hand on my shoulder, and I felt it creep around my neck, even.

I know, though, you know.
I'm not stupid. I do know.
I know we could've been, genuinely, very very good together.
If you weren't such a horrible person, and everything that I hate about people in general,
I think we could've been very very good together.

One Hundred and Fifty Nine

I'm very well aware that I don't have a 'Theatre' tag.
I always think I should.
I've been tempted to start one, on multiple occasions.

But clearly it isn't imperative.

The truth is
I don't know if I like theatre that much.

Maybe I'm just a writer
who happens to write plays
every now and then.

There is little doubt in my mind
that playwriting might not be the best choice for me.

I know that a very - very - small part of me
wants to take next year off.

But you can't afford what you can't afford.

One Hundred and Fifty Eight

I saw you in McMed the other day.

(what were you doing in McMed....
and are you there every Tuesday and Thursday?)

I was rushing out so I didn't stop.

But if I didn't have to go
I wonder if I would've stayed.

It wouldn't be that hard.
Staying with you. It wouldn't be that hard.

"Hey there stranger. I'm sorry I can't talk right now, I've got to rush to hand in a paper. But I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. I miss you, now more than ever. I miss you more than I ever thought possible, and it just grows with every day. A lot's happened since we've last spoke and I want to share it with you. I want to hear about how you've been, too. What are your plans? Where are you going? Can I come with you? I'm busy this week but I'd love to grab some tea with you next week. Let's catch up. Do you have my

Oh. We already have each other's phone numbers
don't we."

One Hundred and Fifty Seven

I don't remember the last time I've ever felt so uncertain.
It's so terrifying.
I don't even like thinking about it, too often, too much.

I think I'm too ambitious for my own good.
Maybe school's been too easy.
A lot of things I've had have felt too easy, for me.

I work, but do I really?
Do I really deserve what I have
do I really deserve this education I've had
or have I just gotten lucky
and it ends here.

Maybe I'm not that good of a student
and now we're all about to realize it.

If there's one thing I can't do about crowds
about people
it's the way they have this unwavering trust in me
unwavering faith that I'm going to be something
excellent. astounding. amazing.

If there's one thing I can't do about it all,
it's the expectation.
Just tell me I'm great today.
Tell me I'll be great tomorrow.
Tell me I'm more than what I can do.

I don't think I can do as much as you think I can.

One Hundred and Fifty Six

I wish
I could be in a room with words.


Literally in a room
in front of a huge, floating, rotating orb
of words.


All the words I know.

I could walk up to it
and I'd be able to touch them
lightly
and they'd bound and jiggle in mid-air
like floating bubbles.

I'd take some and bring them together, collide them into sentences I could hold,
and they'd light up into these bright block words,
like Christmas lights,
and I could wrap them around me.

I wonder what 'trust' would feel like.

One Hundred and Fifty Seven

Dear Words,

Where are you?

When it comes to distance, when it comes to the impossibility of physical hugs, of the tangibility of holding someone in place, calming them, stroking their hair, being there and being there. When it comes to the distance that is university life, when not even a hand on another is possible, when it comes to the bad times, when words are all I can offer on a very, very busy day, when it comes to a limited amount of contact, when there is only one hour for me to give, words, please come when I need you. Please help me be there for them.

One Hundred and Fifty Six

I found somebody.

I wasn't looking for it.
It just sort of happened.

I mean
it didn't 'just happen'.
I...I made it happen. I let it.
I let it happen.

But for all intents and purposes, I never looked for it. I just found it.
Or it found me.
It crashed into my life when I least expected it, didn't really need it,
didn't know I wanted it. And it grew.
It grew into something organic and fair-trade and green green
green like the earth from space so green it looks blue.

And it's everything you never told me it'd be.
Probably everything you never got around to admitting I could have.

I don't know if I can share this with you.
I don't know if I'm ready, quite yet, to have to care
to have to worry
about what you think of this.

Could you just
be happy?

Is there a way you could hear this.
All of this. What I'm saying.
Is there some way you could hear all this
and just be happy?

Cos I am.
I found somebody.

me.

One Hundred and Fifty Five

In restrospect;

You're very tall.

And that's not your fault. And I don't mean it to be an insult, or something you take away as a negative comment. It's not even a bad thing. To be tall.
But just..
In retrospect, you're very tall.

And I think - I know - I remember
I remember one of the few times we hugged
(really hugged)I remember awkwardly thinking, "...wait."
I couldn't figure out where to bury my head.
How to balance my chin.
When to breathe.

I chalked it up to nerves.
I think..I didn't want to ruin us. I didn't want to ruin this idea of us that I had built in my head.
I didn't want to add a tagline, a footer note, to you.

But in retrospect, you're very tall
and I don't think we fit very well together.

One Hundred and Fifty Four

I remember

a distracting office. a phone call across the country, clear across provinces to your mom. cold air brushing in. a sinking pothole of a couch. time creeping by so agonizingly slowly. a cubicle of a room. i was falling asleep. so worried. about everything. and so tired.
and tired of being worried. and worried of my exhaustion.


You turned your body just slightly
(or maybe purposely towards me)
and your hand moved onto my arm
slowly moving, gripping, touching and holding me in place.



so casually.


and I felt

so safe
and calmed.

One Hundred and Fifty Three

It's weird thinking I won't be here next year.
After so much waiting, it's finally here
and it's even less than a year.

In less than a year I won't be here.
I don't know where I'll be.

But I won't be here.

One Hundred and Fifty Two

It's funny how the weather has been beautiful recently.
Funny how late Autumn is this semester.

I walked home the other night, pacing my steps in a darkened neighborhood, observing the trees and noting their leaves had turned yellow so late this year, really so very late. When I rounded the corner of my street I finally at long last realized the leaves had just begun to fall. The street was just recently paved red and orangey-green with tints of proud yellow.

Strange. How time is, this semester.

One Hundred and Fifty One

I think I lied.

I think I said it wouldn't matter, as long as it was reciprocal.
I think I said it would've been special just cos it was reciprocal.

But I'm starting to think
I wouldn't have wanted it with anyone else.