Damnedest Thing

   I have someone new, a beautiful girl in a woman's body. She's so very young in her heart, that I want to think of her as delicate. Then, it occurs to me that treating anyone that way might well encourage a sense of helplessness. The poor girl has had enough of that sort of encouragement.
   It is something new for me, to be the recipient of earnest, whole heated affection. I've been lusted for, used, and more often received a combination of those two, but not this sort of gentle care. I am humbled by it.
   It's a new world for me. I've always want just this sort of affection, kindness, care. It is just that I had almost stopped believing in it.
 
   I am getting ahead of myself, ahead of the moment. The moment is sitting here in the coffee shop. A cool clear sky has blown in from the Northeast. The afternoon sun is chasing me across the table, working at blinding me as i type. O'keefie is still in the park in the town square, the fountain still runs. Though nearly half of the trees have turned, those in the park show green leaves.
   I am wondering why I don't feel happier. There is an emptiness, and I don't understand it.

   I've gotten out of the habit of writing. I do dabble, a little in the notebook, and the occasional post on FB, but the daily ritual is gone. I have been feeling the absence of it, without knowing the cause for the feeling. Reading a few pages from the old blog Paperback Writer reminded what it was like to write every day. So, I'm back.
   There is the old question, who is it that I'm writing to? There is a trick to that, and a danger. I remember why I stopped trying to write in my twenties. Every thing I put down was crap. It had been pasteurized by a personal censor, sanitized for a reader who was a judge. My early journaling an apologetic, the worse sort of writing, free of honest feeling.
   Today I am writing to a stranger, to you. I am going to spill it all out here, what I actually think, and feel. I encourage you to judge me any way you like.