It's been unwise of me, I think, to be so temperamental. I am constantly caught between extremes, a fish caught by luck and lost by accident; a snag on a line but not a bite hard enough to reel. Fickle. Torn between the yes and no of life and love, trying to play into a duality that may only exist just this once. Can't I have both? I appease my desires on both a whim and as a lifeline, fumbling forward toward whoever shoves me down the fastest. I give in. There is no such thing as restraint. & yet. 

I've been spending more nights both alone and in company so much so that they divide themselves exponentially into entirely different equations in my life that leave me in need of both solitary confinement after and craving companionship nonetheless. It's a terrible thing; this need to inhabit and embody mutually exclusive ideals while attempting to reconcile the chaos that ensues. 

New York this time around felt easier. The air was cool, the sun was mild. The train was haphazard as always but the time spent waiting felt shorter and the trip, as a whole, felt quick each time. The days drifted lazily into night and as I made my way through the Park, G. next to me, I felt a pang run through me with a chill. As though one had been struck very quickly by inserting a bobby pin into an outlet. It was both violent yet subdued - a strange illusion of motivation tip-toeing into my mind; inspiring dreams of a future spent nearby. Nearby. I had suddenly gone from giving up to creating plans. The rush of coldness and the winding pathways of the park had lead me astray. When I met up with M. two days later at the Park again, I felt more pessimistic as we conversed at length on the rock; couples photographing each other while we complained. Their happiness seemed to be a natural example of an emotion we were both unfamiliar with - at arm's length, nearby, but just out of reach. 

The days are getting shorter. Yellow leaves drift into my porch and remind me of the curving branches that lined the pathway from G.'s apartment to the train. Yearning. 

That's a fair word for the way things feel. Almost there, just never quite.