Songs of Experience

Well, -that- was whiny, wasn’t it? Let’s be a little more practical.

To-do list:

* Arrange sitting for my mastery tests

* Finish designing that new outfit and ask M about it

* Finalize the design for the SS Project and get the builders started

* Plan some potential payment options for the SS Project’s personnel

* Write that letter to Grandfather (ugh ugh ugh) and start planning for that trip to Tubor

* Draw up some sketches for an appropriate outfit for JS… better not ask M about this one

* Finish at least a little more of ‘the project’ – look at me I’m so secretive!

* Stop writing this potentially infinite list that I keep generating 2 new items for every time I write 1 and go cartwheel around naked in the enormous foyer of my enormous house because guess what, I can do that now.

You know what? My life is pretty awesome and I need to stop forgetting that. In fact, I’m going to bookmark this page so that any time I start feeling overwhelmed I can go back, re-read it, and slap myself for whining about how I’m just so BUSY trying to spend all my MONEY.

Excuse me, I have to go get naked now.

I can think of nothing more foolish, more likely to end in my destruction, than a chronicle of my thoughts and feelings. So, of course, I’ve decided I must begin one without delay.

No, to be honest with myself – something I should at least do in these pages – I can think of a good many more foolish things. (Quite a few of which I’ve done.) It’s just a question of how much foolishness I can allow myself. I’ll put the more dangerous entries in ciphers in the off chance someone’s able to find this. One thing I’ve learned is that just because something is unlikely doesn’t mean you can discount it.

So where to begin? Well, I’m writing for myself, so I don’t exactly need an introduction, do I? The whole point of this is to corral my scattered thoughts, express the things that can’t find voice.

First and foremost, I’m tired. I’m tired of being driven by mad impulses that I don’t understand; of being aware that what I do isn’t necessary, yet compelled to do it all the same. I’m tired of standing between worlds, trying to chart some course between my identities that ends in a coherent whole.

I’m tired of understanding her reasons, but wondering anyway. If everything works out, there are so many reasons why a marriage between us would make sense. Why it would be appropriate, convenient, the answer to so many of our concerns. Both of us need heirs, both of us will have to marry someone – but she remains lukewarm at best.

If I could just believe it had nothing to do with me… but I can’t. That’s the part that kills me: the seed of suspicion that if I were a better man, the practical benefits of the idea would have long since trumped her unhappiness with the thought of marriage. Can I blame her for being hesitant to tie herself inescapably to me, with everything I’ve been and done?

In the end it all means nothing. I love her and for now, that matters more than any pride. No other woman could do. I’ll take what she’s willing to give, and pray one day that if I keep trying, I can prove myself worthy of more.