1/17/26 - 1/19/26: Wild Decay.

1/17/26

I drove by a cemetery today. There was a sign near the entrance, and the only part I could make out was in big, bold typeface: ALL WILD ANIMALS.

 

My mind turned to the idea of humans being wild animals, which is undeniably true. It was as if this was only a cemetery for the wildest among us to be buried. Do you not live a wild life filled with the entanglements of intense passion, dreams, regrets, confusion, and all manner of delight, and the excitement of exploration? Then go get buried somewhere else. This is our place for wild decay.

 

 

1/18/26

I've always found such comfort in words and language. In all my difficult struggles growing up, I'd always turn to the pages of my favorite dictionary. And now when I'm struggling? Same thing. It's my tried and true method for lessening anxiety. My thick, childhood dictionary is open right now for a millionth re-read, but I'm only on page 8. For extra comfort I'm making a list of all the words I stumble across that strike my fancy. 

 

I've been looking for the right words to accurately capture the feeling of being deeply trapped in illness. And also for the words that accurately describe the ache of not being able to be around a person I want so badly to be around. The one person who's somehow been able to make me forget how trapped I’ve felt for the last two years. They make me feel the way pottery makes me feel: comforted, free, safe, and inspired. 

 

Their lips are really soft. Like that feeling when your hands are in flour. I want to know everything about them. I want to talk to them for hours on end like we did the first time we met up. It was at a park where basketball was played and dog's sniffed each other's butts and frolicked freely. I want to hold their hand. But instead I'm reading the dictionary. Actinomorphic: Having radial symmetry, as a flower or a starfish. 

 

 

When I look up synonyms for 'unavailable', one of the phrases that pops up is 'out of stock'. As if a person being unavailable, because they're in a relationship with someone else, is equivalent to chicken broth being out of stock on the grocery store shelves. 

 

 

1/19/26

I'm thinking about Bruce this morning. He was a white goldfish that the guy I had been dating, up until a few days ago, had as a kid. "You know, like Bruce Willis." 

I think about all the little stories someone tells you that get lost when the relationship ends. I think of the stories floating away like let-go-of balloons, until they're gone. I feel sad for these stories. 

 

As blindsided as I was by him ending things, as he had only just cooked me a fancy dinner, gave me a thoughtful gift, and told me how happy he was that I was in his life, he still never made me feel the way pottery makes me feel. And this will always be my barometer for everything in life now. Do I feel as passionately about it as I do about clay? Would I rather be kissing them right now or making a giant slab vase with lots of darting and slip trailing?