Time for me to fly

Healing is a confusing process. Very, very confusing.

You think you're totally cool, you've got your shit together, then grief sweeps up like a fucked-up magic carpet and takes your feet out from under you. And you land hard on your ass. Hard, my friends. Like crying on the subway hard. Like tears are silently streaming down your face so hot and salty that your oversized sunglasses are fogged up and your nose is flowing down into your mouth. And you are wearing a short-sleeved shirt so you wipe your runny nose on your arm, which is gross and ineffective. And the REO Speedwagon song blasting into your ear canals isn't helping things. No. Not at all.

And you clutch your half-full Starbucks in one hand while you try and hang on to the cold metal pole with the other and look out the window of the subway car so you don't make people feel uncomfortable. But they kind of are anyway, and they just sort of sidestep away from you in case whatever you've got is catching.

It's just sadness, guys. It's not a disease. It's just a little healthy tension release. You're just getting out some toxins. Working through the unexpected heart-thumping bereavement that can only be brought on by the ten-year anniversary of a failed marriage. Weird. Sadness is so strange. Grief is so necessary, though. Tears are my way of cleaning out the cobwebs and making room for other emotions, like hope, happiness, serenity. It's all part of a giant universal process. Ah. I'm so goddamned insightful I just wanna give myself a big fucking hug.

I have to say though, that's one thing I love about New York. My beautiful, humming, busy busy city. You, New York, are the city of narcissists. Only in this wonderful place can you be surrounded by people and still retain total anonymity. Because nobody gives a shit. And today, for that I am grateful.