Ow. My shoulder hurts because I was thinking with my socks.
I did laundry, and there were guys out between the apartments, the sort of guys who are up and smoking and drinking beer and helpfully offer to help with your carrying-laundry if you need it.
"I'm fine," I said casually.
"Muscles!" they said approvingly.
My socks decided that I should toss the laundry bag (which is a large bag, about the size of a reasonably large child, heavy, and bulky) up in the air, catch it deftly, and carry it the rest of the way back to the apartment on top of my head.
The only part that wasn't a mistake was carrying it on my head. The tossing and catching strained something. Ow. Pain. My socks are satisfied, though, but the rest of me is pretty pissed.
Dagger adamantly denies that she's the one who thinks with our socks, but it's either her, Marah, or both. I suspect both working in concert.
I try to put it in words, and I feel as if I must inevitably fail. Today was one of the beautiful days, one of those days where horrors of the past may be spoken of in a matter-of-fact tone without inviting pity, where there is the lazy warm feel of one of those golden fall days where it's warm like summer, but the refreshing cold winter lurks around the corner a few days away. It's the taste of utter honesty informed by modesty and privacy.
I had hidden from the honesty. And when I start lying, lying to selfishly lock away my pain away from the one person who could understand it more than I would want to believe, I'm the one who ends up most hurt. A week ago, I let go of my pain all at once and was, yet again, reborn...
Why doesn't my mind summon all the details of our conversations back to me the instant we're done? For sanity. Morning pages, you have me do three pages of morning pages? Give me that time with my bondmate. It all comes out all the same, written or spoken, when I'm being honest. I may lie to him only as long as he allows me to, and that's a difficult proposition. He calls me on it when I lie to myself.
Those are the dry fact-words of it. It's hard to put the words to the experience, when so much of it transcending the written. It's the high golden woodwind note painting a deep blue late summer sky, rising to the furthest point the air carries flight and holding the altitude, calm and soaring. When the sound of that note diminishes, the feeling of it still vibrates the bone and blood. Below the level of conscious attention, a subtle and complex bass line weaves the notes of a chord progression in and out of each other in Celtic patterns, ebony-brown and rich birch gold.
One could package up all that and more into a few words, and leave it at "best friend". "Affection," "acceptance", and "unconditional love" brush against the edges, but there isn't the depth and breadth to that, the experience, the sheer joy in being human, the patience, the experience that comes of pain and survival.
I show my bright and sparkling shallows to the world, and occasionally a current comes up from the deep and startles the careful observer. Only the few have ever survived to tell of the undertow, and fewer accept it as openly. What use is fencing with the sea?
One of the things about my room is this: I have lots of things on the walls and ceiling secured by pushpins. And last night, I saw a pushpin on the floor and didn't pick it up immediately because I was busy writing.
This morning, my big toe found it, point-up.
Fortunately, I don't walk on my toes, so it was just a little pinprick.