“Love doesn’t end, just because we don’t see each other.”, she told him

“Doesn’t it?”, he asked.

“People go on loving God, don’t they? All their lives. Without seeing Him.”

“That’s not my kind of love.”

I realize that on days like this — when the wind is cutting through the seams of my jacket, when my stomach is so cramped that it twitches, when I’m uncontrollably nodding off to sleep on the bus, when my transfer expires before I can use it, when incompetence isn’t keeping my appointments — that I can’t call you. It just wouldn’t help.

You abandoned me when I needed you the most. I’ll never trust you with anything important again. Including me.

You may say you love me, but I don’t love you. Not anymore.

My love is (was) boundless.

Yours is of convenience.

She hugged me yesterday. I thought I was over her, but maybe I’m still smitten. Physical contact does funny things to the mind.

I don’t understand why girls are so into hugging. Often, I’ll go for a handshake, and as if it doesn’t take, they’ll lean in to hug afterwards. A girl once asked if she could hug me after I explained to her my procedure for checking a cat before adoption. Figure that one out.

The funny thing is that most girls aren’t very good huggers. They give limp hugs — more of a pressing of the arms to the body — and it bugs the crap out of me. It’s like getting a soft handshake, also referred to as the “limp noodle“.

Bronwen’s an exception. I always give and get a bear hug from her when I see her and when she leaves. Sometimes we fight for arm positioning, because we both prefer to have the arms lower than the other. I like to have my arms around a girls’ waist, whereas she likes to have her arms surrounded, so she feels protected.

The two Louise’s are/were also good at hugging. Nice and firm, without being too clingy. Maybe it’s a Louise thing.

It just makes me wonder; if girls are so into hugging, why aren’t they better at it?

One of my daily rituals used to be lighting a joint when I got home from work, and riding off the weed for the rest of the evening. It was the only thing that could relax me; otherwise, I was tense and uptight. I couldn’t just sit and watch a movie, read a book, listen to an album without it because I felt too guilty, as if I wasn’t getting enough done.

For the first year that I quit, I missed it terribly. Not because I couldn’t sleep, not because food became bland, not because music didn’t sound as good, but because I couldn’t calm down. I was always trying to get things done, constantly depriving myself of pleasure to accomplish things without an end.

Following Taoism has changed that. Taoists value becoming as a child. Having no extraneous thoughts, and living in the now.

Unless stopped by adults, children live life to the full, whereas for most adults existence seems more of a near-life experience where we resemble actors rehearsing for a play that never quite begins, instead of playing fully, as children do, in a performance that has no beginning or end.

—Mark Forstater, The Tao

In doing so, I’ve begun to live every day as if it was my last. I don’t worry about running out of my good tea anymore, and just drink it. I don’t feel guilty about doing nothing, about letting my mind wander. I do what I feel like, when I feel like it. I’ve been able to let go. I stopped sweating the small stuff, and started enjoying life.

An ex-smoker once told me that the part he missed the most about smoking was the ritual. The early-morning-coffee or the after-dinner smoke. He felt a lot better after quitting, but if he found out the world was going to end in a week, the first thing he would do is go to the corner store and buy a pack of smokes. I used to think that I’d do the same with weed. Not so, anymore.

Not that I don’t miss it every now and then. There are certain things that can only be experienced through mind-tripping highs. It’s something I’d like to keep for special occasions. When I go to see Darren, or when John comes down, but even those seldom times aren’t worth it anymore. I know I’ll never do it again, but I don’t mind because I know I’ve been fortunate enough to experience it already. The important part is that I’m not dependent on it.

Taoist hedonism has set me free.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find out you’ll be in town the day after I write about you.

The way the young man I just met is taking the same bus home with me. The way the friend who’s been lost forever suddenly shows up, packing your bags in the checkout line.

But I know it’s not a sign. It’s not some cosmic path, just the way things are working out. At least, I think so. My life has been filled with such occurrences, and I’ll be damned if it all doesn’t start to mean something.

See you tomorrow.

It hasn’t stopped pouring since I woke up. I’m traveling through the city in my favourite hoodie. Thinking about you and your delicate wrists. The photos I took of you smiling, always looking away. Wondering what it must be like in your world. Wondering if we’ll ever meet again. Wondering what you meant when you told me it’s hard to be alone when you’re told you’re growing old.

I write this so I won’t have to write about you again.

Perhaps in a simpler world things would have worked out differently, and you would have given me a second thought.

But I have no tears in me.

The sky weeps instead.