before today

I’m writing a letter to him cause for some reason I feel like I’m going to cry right now. Anything to cry and also not cry— check my texts, lean as close as I can to the radiator, and write and write and write because that is what makes my world coherent. I wonder what did this to me, this ailment of writing to sanctify and comprehend my thoughts, this cause and effect. I don’t know how often I experience presence, but I think its a lot less than most people. In the few and far between conversations that truly engage me, I experience it. In the act of writing, the ecstasy of presence washes over me, and although I do not labor to improve my ability to maintain presence, I think I still seek it out. My most nourishing activities are present ones. Sometimes, I think the reason that I can’t make people laugh or uphold conversation is due to the fact that I have never lived in a moment as it occurred. They coalesce and pass me by and I spend each moment catching up on the old ones, and when that gets dull, predicting future ones.