I tune last.fm to Lucero.

Where did we leave off two weeks ago, J? Everything has been great. What could I possibly have to complain about? I’m always bringing up Frankl. I had to walk to the bookshelf to remember his name. I saw my precalc book from last year. I forgot B’s name for five minutes today while talking to J. It’s going, slowly. I bring up Frankl’s theory on there always being something else to mourn, beneath that which seems the worst. The case for tragic optimism.

Ben Nichols comes on.

Various memories stick with me. I’ll always remember my father’s roommate Stan telling me about his never-satiated quest for higher pay grades in the Navy. He tells me this to send home the message that it’s always something else, to just live.

When did that sink in for me? Then? Before? I feel like it always has been. I used to joke that I had all of life figured out except relationships. I used to think I was broken, that everything else wasn’t worth bringing up in therapy because it was just hard, but it was life. That it was only relationships that needed fixing. But no, it’s all just hard, some are just easier than others.

My fear of ending up sad and alone like my father has driven me in many subtle ways; too subtle to attribute. What happened? When did dating level out with everything else? When did it become as easy as all the other hard stuff? Did I admit defeat?

I told J today I couldn’t think of a happier time than walking into M’s living room and seeing her. We were talking about how to tell if I felt I was afraid of settling. What is that? I mean, I had to have had fun, but was it all the sort of riding bikes and drinking fun that isn’t particularly meaningful and fades into the forgotten past?

The more I do, the more achieve, the less it seems to matter. Where do you find someone whom has realized that, standing silently next to you, looking down. You walk into the woods.