#13 The nightmares are just my normal state of being.
I wake up sweating over everything I feel I'm neglecting.
The press, the books, I want everything.
I forget how much has already been done, I'm simply failing.
I fail you, drowning in panic.
Drowning in a sea of impatience.
Feeling as though you trusted me with so much - almost everything.
I'd do anything not to screw it up.
I've destroyed so many beautiful things because of foolish passion.
Is it a curse? Am I made of delusions?
A child locked inside a twisted, ageing, wanting prison.
#14 Being psychic doesn't help if you can't trust your feelings.
The violets bloomed today.
I knew that meant I could walk to the mailbox and find your poems.
I would type them into my file, fill in more pieces of your journey and not ask for anything more.
I can be grateful.
My thoughts would still be swimming and swollen, still bloated from yesterday's conference, and meeting so many strange neurotic television and Internet Specialists.
Were they all fibre optic cables too?
They also over-prepared their notes and arrived way too early to deep-breathe in the lobby like I did.
The future opened to me in a way I'd never let myself imagine.
I want what I want.
I wanted to get back up north, to our little store at Northgate and sell turbo hubs to all the bush people who want Internet hookups at their hunting camps.
I wanted to get back to the books, the cats, to all the work piling up, covering up the work that's been done already.
How could I go on? How could I not go on?
You were such an integral piece of the puzzle.
Deflated under the weight of everything.
I don't want to kill your plants.
I don't want the house to burn down or a flood to come and destroy your things.
I don't want to let the cats out, or all those other terrible things.
What if the furnace breaks and we all freeze, or Paws gets into plastic?
What if it all collapses?
I want it to be enough.
I wanted to write a book.
It's never going to be enough.
I want so much.
Why can't I have everything I want?
#15 You asked me to delete your poem.
My favourite one.
Did I misunderstand its changing meaning?
#16 I don't want to go lay in the sun in a patch of violets but I do.
Because I can.
And I share the end of my apple with the chipmunk who has lived in my house longer than I have.
I'm reminded why I moved up here.
I'm in the exact spot I'm needed to be.