I'd nearly forgotten about the rollercoaster.
Dear diary was kind enough to remind me.
It's been a while since days like the day before and yesterday took me so damned high that the first quiet moment was a deafening crash and nameless heartache.
The issue's been discussed before, whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune -- and climb higher than anyone else has climbed before, or if it's easier and quieter and all around preferable to be soft and content and mildly interested, and never fear the fall.
The issue's also been decided before, that the highs are worth it, that the dizzying happiness, the impossible glee, are worth the moments when the world spins a touch too swiftly and the sparkle becomes harder to discern amidst the smudge.
Of course, you could call that manic-depressive tendencies rather easily, and even tack on a quiet little "narcissistic" nomenclature to explain why I've convinced myself that I prefer it.
I'm not discounting that possibility, but I am not running from it either.
I don't need to. I have the greatest parachute-cum-Callahan's-saloon anyone could ask for. I have more love pouring in at me than anyone deserves, I have such outrageously beautiful fortune that the moment the doubt nibbles at the inside of my cheek, it has approximately the lifespan of a mayfly.
But I'll admit that Montreal has that effect on me. Perhaps it's the way it challenges my brain, my entourage so painfully brilliant that my entire system goes into overload.
And I love it.
It makes me want to write again, unlike the dry days in Paree.
My muse is my instability? This is not an uncommon precept.
But nevertheless I am inspired and I'm not sure there is any price too high for such a gift.
I love sitting at McKibbin's with pints slowly going flat, playing bridge with maniacs and laughing at the wittiest repartee that I've heard in months.
I'm not quite sure what I intended to say, save that Montreal definitely has stresses left for me, the ghosts are tangible if not always clearly identifiable.
I am thrilled and terrified at the same time, elated and yet there is a weight on my heart, I am terrified of missing something, disappointing someone important.
Maybe it's the water supply.
Maybe it's too many big questions all at once and not indicative of a return to old patterns.
Maybe it's nuffin' and I'm just lookin' for melodrama at this hour of the mornin' whilst the world still sleeps.
I dunno. I just know that I needed to mete out the nameless pangs that fell the moment quiet dusked last night, so that I can revel in the sheer wonder of playing Playstation with John, answering the phone in his shop and suddenly remembering the two weeks that we ran away from the world together, beer flavoured ice cream that I couldn't finish and seeing in his eyes that even John, great, adventurous, flawless John...
...still loves me despite my new lack of cool, wants me back as a roommate even though I won't be supplying the place with a steady stream of sluts.
And bridge night cuddles with Marc and Val and Cfoo and his antics and the waitress at the bar recognized me and asked me if I was back yet...
And I am still dancing on the edge of a multicoloured razorblade, craving home and yet terrified of it.
Last night when we moved the tables together at the pub and opened up a space in the floor, John and I waltzed like so many years ago, head thrown back, legs straining, and eyes went wide all about.
And for a few moments I was part of something beautiful.