Like any deeply introspective and philosophical nerd, I turn to books and music and film and art, in general, to assuage my anxiety and to ease my passage through transitions. This particular transition has been quite different. It is being quite different. This transition feels intrinsically right, perfectly measured, and has–in all honesty and perhaps prematurely–been rather smooth sailing.

But alas, a mind as serious and bloated as mine can’t just let things Be.

I am wrestling with my own feelings of living poetically–better, worse–Either/Or. Uncomfortable, for sure. Or (inclusively) I’m simply weary that I’ll never know the unbearable lightness of being.

This evening, I called a boy. I recounted my day, despite acknowledging his boredom, and was moved on. He’ll never call me Shams, nor I him. I pulled out my journal–paper and ink–and began by noting that it had been almost six years to the day since I’d opened my veins and bled black. I noted also the irony of that last and this first entry. As I poured my chaos into the great white abyss, I came to realize I’d been mainlining Rumi the way others snort lines of Harlequin. Perhaps that was the problem and so the solution would be easy.

I began the bleary and sluggish search for an antidote. Kant and Machiavelli were both at hand, but for practical reasons–YES, REALLY!–so they were out. I unearthed Shelley, of the ‘his’ variety, and quickly remembered why he’d sat so long on the shelf. Sorry, Mary…he was just never up to doc. Then I thought about The Seducer’s Diary, and then I thought about that seducer, and then I thought: NO.

It was shortly after this that I saw it. Its physical existence as heavy and burdensome as its legacy. My mind, my space, my soul felt sharp and lucid in comparison. My problem seems so trite and petty when I think of the serious and chronic bloating that afflicted Ayn.