Aaron brought Patches over Monday night, and he’s been staying under my bed for most of the time. The tent that he has is sort of his security blanket; he’ll hide in there whenever he wants to be alone. Dolores is a little wary of his presence, and she’ll follow him just to keep track of where he is most of the time. So far, it’s just a few hisses and growls, since Dolly seems to want to test Patches with challenges, while Patches just groans. Sometimes it sounds like stock cars making a turn at Daytona when they growl out of sync.

I finally printed off my picture of the glasses on the sill and framed it, which is quite something considering the fact that I have barely any decorations in my room. I was lucky enough to have been given a nice metal frame as a Christmas gift a few years ago, but have not had a decent picture to put in it. Since I don’t have a career going yet, I try to keep a minimalistic amount of furniture until I can afford to invest in long term sets, and for now the picture rests on my coffee table. I wanted a physical manifestation of the image because of the poignancy it evokes in me.

Every time I look at it I can’t help but think of the morning sun seeping through the cracks of blue venetian blinds, of the flourish of green leaves outside the window. I think of lying on a swollen bed with my back to the wall, noticing the brightness of the sun fill the room, talking well past the break of day. I think of sleeping next to someone, holding her head, drawing on her face, seeing the early light bring out the sunflowers in her eyes. I remember how we’d go to sleep, placing our frames on the windowsill before succumbing to exhaustion.

Perhaps I’m so affected by this image, this bittersweet memory, because of how much I relish the act of sleeping next to someone. One of my favourite parts of a relationship is being able to hold someone before losing consciousness. I suppose it betrays a vulnerability, a certain unparalleled intimacy, and vulnerability is something that I’ve always been attracted to.

But how odd it is that this may mean so much to me, yet mean so little to another. That even someone sharing this experience with me may think of it in passing, as some ephemeral experience, not worth remembering.

What do we take with ourselves when we fall apart? Do we keep the memories or the emotions? Do we only take the good and leave the bad?

With this picture I try to take everything. I don’t want to hide from hurt, I don’t want to neglect any feelings. I choose to see the image as a beautiful thing, a frame in time when I felt something greater than most things I’ve felt in my life. I try to turn the pain into productivity and gain from my experience. I look at this picture and become affected by everything it means to me.

Even if it means nothing to anyone else.

Ever since Nick moved in, I’ve been trying the whole “get dressed” thing, where I actually change out of my PJs for the day. When I was living with Pita, we would just lounge around in our most relaxing clothes all the time; I had been living with him since first year, so we were comfortable with each other. Being dressed certainly makes me feel more productive, and I’m a little less self-conscious when I open my blinds to let the fresh, cool air circulate in my room.

I spent the greater half of Saturday practice trying to unlearn what I got used to with the 38mm ball. I’m probably not going to use that size ball anymore, for fear that it’ll fuck up my game.

Yesterday I was able to play Dan for the first time, who happens to be the best player at the club with good reason. He was the leader in the city amateur divisions at one point, and has won leagues, tournaments, money prizes, even coaching victories. The best part of playing him is his attitude. As far as I can tell, he’s the only person there aside from me, playing for fun. Everyone else is either playing to keep in shape or to win. It’s funny to go against these young cocky guys who get angry when they miss a shot.

Dan is able adapt his style to his opponent during rallies; for me he’ll go defensive and let me smash the whole time (which is my favourite part), though he doesn’t loop return as much as the pros. He’s amazing at returning too…he’ll be backed up against the wall about twelve feet from the table, arc the ball ten feet in the air, and it’ll still land on my side. He even adds a crazy amount of side-spin to throw me off. It usually takes about a dozen kill shots to actually win the point against him, and since I go all out when I smash, I’m wasted after five minutes of rallying with him.

How odd that the themes of my writings have mostly shifted in one direction. I always wonder what people think of what I say. I would imagine that people think I’m being melodramatic, that I’m looking for some sort of protagonistic pathos, or that I’m being some pretentious fuck.

It’s as if a single incident has shifted my mindset, that I just can’t seem to completely get over what has passed. The hurting has stopped, to be sure, but the thinking isn’t done. I still get inspired by memories, ideas, emotions, almost anything I’ve experienced through this.

I was once scared that I would never fall in love again, and I used to be emotionally numb. Perhaps all of this was simply a result of a life of stagnancy, of boredom. Now I can write again, I have things to think about, I have emotions to experience, I seem to have things to look forward to.

Can heartbreak be so beneficial? I know that I can feel. I don’t need to force my artistic writing. My mind seems to be filled with new endless thoughts. I can even appreciate certain music on another level now. This complexity, this mysteriousness is so interesting.

My only worry is that this new vitality will level off into nothingness.