amour propre

I used to measure my words.  But there is nothing to talk about now. 

I'm on my second round of edits for the book.  This involves creating documents with page numbers, line numbers, words to be removed, sentences to be removed, typos, re-ordering of words in phrases, time spent looking at an advanced reader copy of my own book, time spent staring at my laptop, time spent remembering why I wrote the things I wrote.  I distance myself from the work.  It is a collection of essays now.  It is something else.

I cut something about a friend who called me once when she was abroad.  She was upset at something this guy said or did, or how he was acting in general because he loved her, just not yet, and it was the beginning time of their relationship.  I thought I had it so good, but it was just the same. 

I heard something today on a podcast about pain, how people are avoiding it, trying to get far away from it, stop it, make it go away, prevent it, ensure it doesn’t enter their lives in any way, shape, or form.  Outside of Whole Foods, a girl I sort of know is asking people for money so she can help the homeless.  She smiles in her green shirt and tells me it’s a difficult time for her, that she’s trying to figure out what she’s supposed to be doing.  And I find it funny because I'm doing the same thing.  I tell her to try and have a purpose every day, even if it’s small.  She is smiling so big, with teeth so bright and shining like the sun.