Tuesday, November 14, 2017

כל העולם כולו 
גשר צר מאוד 
לא לפחד, לא לפחד כלל

The whole entire world
Is a very narrow bridge,
And the main thing
Is to recall
Have no fear,
Have no fear at all

Just in case

This probably sounds pretty awful, but as always before a flight oversees, I'm scared, and think I should write a brief bundle of requests in the case of death: 

(1) Nemo
I want the best for Nemo. My heart is connected to hers, I have immense compassion and empathy toward her, and I want her to live with someone who will love her and pamper her and take care of her. It is up to the people mentioned hereinafter to decide with whom and where she will live, but Tal's opinion shall have the most weight and he shall be the first to decide if he will take upon himself the responsibility of being Nemo's owner, or if he will give that responsibility to someone else, and according to the following guidelines: Nemo shall live either with Tal, or with my parents, or with Dena, or with Gilad, or with someone who truly loves her whom I have forgotten (all of the above are not listed in order of preference, but just in random order). If she is to be flying back to Israel, she is not to be sent in a crate in the baggage compartment, but rather together with a person she knows and loves, who will get permission from the airline to do so. Nemo has flown with me in the past and is capable of lying at her caretaker's feet for the entirety of the flight (though she does need long walks outdoors on the day of the flight prior to the flight). If no airline is willing to allow her to travel on-board with her caretaker, I do beg that a special request is made, or a public outcry is made if necessary, to allow her to fly on-board with her caretaker. If need be, her caretaker will do what I did and get her registered with them as their "emotional support pet."
Nemo shall be treated with positive reinforcements, with love and with care, for the rest of her life.

(2) My stuff
I'd like for people who have an interest, a belief and a compassion for me, for sentiment, for feminism and for unbridled honesty, to go through my physical belongings and things in my parents' house and in other places where I might have things, such as all the papers with stories and poems and drawings and photos and ideas of mine, and decide what to do with them. On another note, I have started compiling blog posts from this blog for a book, on Google Drive. I have saved too many posts in that document and it needs to be edited more. Plus, I only got up to year 2011 I think.

(3) Me
You may mourn, but not too long. I do not want anyone to live in agony and sorrow, especially not the people I love. A person's death is sad or even tragic, but life must go on, remembering the deceased but also finding other sources of light. While our body may die, our consciousness still lives in the minds, energies, and particles of love in every being, animal and plant in the world. Our consciousness morphs and blends into all other ideas and thoughts inside all other creatures, contributing its own unique decrees and colors. My life was full of wondrous times with amazingly loving, talented and unique people. My life also had a lot of fear and remorse, but that is because I was always trying to find truth and love through pain and longing. I have lived with compassion, and if there is one legacy I'd leave, I'd want it to be the lifelong striving for compassion.
I've tried to write a lot throughout my life, and despite my many many words (some of which were published on this blog but many also not) I've never, in all my 27 years, been able to write one full explanation of my being. It is a lifelong process. I have tried my best, I wrote and lived honestly and genuinely, and I hope I have made people's (and animals') lives better.
Please please please try to love. Everyone and everything, of every color and every race and every species. Every sentient being is worthy of protection, space and companionship. Please do your best to give that to everyone who has a beating heart.

Sunday, November 12, 2017


This is not the "positive space" (the important material for the story to be shared), but in order to find that positive space, I need to carve out the "negative space." So here is the negative space, the stories which are non-stories; side notes which I'm chiseling through, to help guide me toward the important substance that will be eventually worth sharing:


She takes off, and me after her, following in the footsteps of her long dress and her unscreened livelihood, into the forest. We climb through tree paths with our feet clenching soggy earth, the smell of autumn surrounding us. The trees are so tall that when you look up it looks as if their tips are embracing each other. We tiptoe around the trees and make long whooshy "wow" sounds, like lovers of mother nature, and then we sit on a log, facing where the sun sometimes shines through. A man walks by and roars a mischief in our direction, and as he walks off the leaves tremble and shake off the vibrations of his voice until they calm back into silence. The leaves trickle through the air as they soar down slowly and daintily from the trees onto the ground. Sometimes you can't tell if it's the leaves pattering, or if forest elves are conversing. Who knows, really, what lives in there, inside these mossy dense forests!

On our way back from the forest a young man passed us by. "Good day, sir!" she said toward him. "Good day, ladies!" he replied. When we passed him I said to her, "don't you just want to hug people like that, and say - thank you so much for being nice!"?


We flip through files; old papers full of meaning and people who have died. The ideas in them are rich like soil that has simmered for decades. Her house is full of enchanted stories. Her carpets are mossy, and her old cat meows. She is a 1960's hippie fairy living in a little apartment in 2017. She laughs with a sigh, she smiles and she aches. She is an artist, a thinker, a sentimentalist. Ah, sentimentalists... Their piles and piles and papers and colors do not seem odd to me. I want to embrace them just as much as they do, perhaps. I want their stories to come alive and give meaning to mine. I never know how to thank them enough for just being who they are.


When I take a walk with Nemo we walk through a path at the end of our block, and the damp leaves and trees of fall are wondrous. My heart rejoices and takes deep breaths that are not dependent on anything, and are not followed or pre-iterated by anything.

But I do often wonder - when will I stop telling myself who I am, what I love, and that I am breathing a breath so fine... and will breath like a wolf, without knowing who I am, and maybe figuring it out anew from every breath onward... And not knowing that I love the forest when I go into it, and not knowing in advance (on every level of cognition) that I will or should be wowed by it... Not telling myself to shut my eyes and smell so that the camera external to me will catch me in that kind of Hollywood loveliness. Not telling myself anything, but just purely feeling and being, like an infant, if the forest can cradle me without me writing these odd words on a World Wide Web later on in the passage of time through the cracks of those age-old tree trunks and through my incorrigible bodily self...

But still, it was a breath so fine... of those maples turning yellow...


"Can you tell us a story?"
"I can't tell stories."

But let me try to write some, and we'll see how I do.

Like the time I returned to my Jerusalem first-floor apartment in October 2014 with Nemo on the far end of the leash and my bleeding hand on the other, with a cut too deep for me to look at clearly without fainting. I gently took off Nemo's leash, I lay on the couch in the sunlit room across the long back window-doors. I called the person still married to me whose voice was still the proteins of my consciousness, who would be home to help only in a few hours, told him I'd call S, the person not married to me, who was working nearby and with a looser schedule, and I called S, who soon came over to this home of mine, hugged me at the door, and helped me bandage my hand. He was my new love which I was easily morphing into after the long-processed termination of the love with the man still living with me. This love would last a while, would consist of lovely things like sharing precious time in a small and very clean hotel-like one-room apartment with large windows through which we watched rain and snow, sharing that space with many dogs, with meals of pasta-and-mushroom-cream-sauce, oatmeal with soy milk, and salads cut in the plastic salad-cutting machine, a life of AR protests and activism together, coming over by bus to his place after art school or walking over with Nemo the 25-minute walk from our place to his, snuggling and drinking hot chocolate. I would later sadly break his heart over the telephone one night, leaving him probably wondering why he didn't end it earlier and why he kept believing I'd be content. That night I'd take myself and my beloved Nemo, get on a bus to Be'er Sheva and land in a dear friend's house to cry all night long and sleep in her bed.

Or the time in the winter, at the turn of 2008 and 2009, I was out on a 5-day desert Survival Week with a group of 28 other young people ("mechina"), where we trudged up mountains and down slopes, and had no cell phones until we finished, at which point I saw missing calls from Gilad's mother and a voice message from her which I didn't listen to, because (my heart started racing) - maybe it's to inform me that Gilad was killed in the army, or that something else horrible happened, so instead called Gilad himself, who finally answered and gravely replied that he'll tell me about it later when he sees me, and this was all on a Friday afternoon, when I was about to go back home to my parent's house for Shabbat, and there were only a few hours left before Shabbat, but I hurried home, took the world's fastest shower, brushed through some of the hair dropping out after a week of being in a ponytail out there, which continued falling out hours later, too, pulled on some clothes and drove as fast as I could to his house 45 kilometers away, just to make it there at sunset. I was with his warmness, I was at home with him, we were safe now, whatever it was that happened. Gilad told me he was miserable, he had become so desperate in the army that he ran away... He walked out of the base, down to the highway and hitch hiked to his counselor's house, where he slept that night.


There is no physical pain in my life, in any of my decisions, or in any of my future endeavors. But I often suffer from the notion of how things are or how things will be. I suffer for things that aren't, for things that won't, for things unknown. I suffer and yet my body is content and free. How can one understand this paradox and free oneself from suffering, truly? And how come it is so hard to understand what it is the heart wants, and if the heart needs to be replaced or rather readjusted. Because readjusting can happen, if only we were not too afraid we would miss our misgivings. We can decide to be happy - but how scary and treacherous it is to leave behind our long-loved and deeply-deciphered friends called agony and regret.

Sadness and agony are so much more concrete than happiness. They have so many more reasons and explanations, while happiness is so swift, so abstract, like a cloud which holds no real content but whose presence you are glad to be granted for however long it will stay.

The being has not landed inside itself again. At some point in time it shattered into an echo of itself, and especially flying over the Atlantic to a new land has left the mind scurrying behind, pleading to be placed back into itself, to overlap the experience.


"You can't buy groceries with the ideas in your head," Tal mentioned when we had this really deep and long conversation going from hanging on a tightrope to leaping into the water. I was sitting on a step, he was standing, we spoke for a while and got deep into the truth of our beings. Truth: I live in my ideas. I am full of inspiration, imagination and thoughts that are always colliding, coinciding, subsiding and gliding in colorful streams and spurts.


I hate not having any money. I'd like to buy chocolate, organic oats in bulk, strawberries, and presents for all the people I love.

I also hate not having enough diligence to finish all the great things I've started over the past 27 years: stories, songs, artwork, ideas, sentences.


What I love most, though, are these things:
Our little home
Watching TV
Playing guitar

These things give me immeasurable pleasure and contentment, and I am very grateful to be free of physical pain and suffering...

מוֹדָה אֲנִי לְפָנֶֽיכם, מֶֽלֶךְ חַי ושכינה קַיימת, שֶׁהֶֽחֱזַֽרְתם בִּי נִשְׁמָתִי בְחֶמְלָה. 
רַבָּה אֱמֽוּנָתכם

Friday, November 03, 2017

Tuesday, October 24, 2017


Change is so swift, so unpredictable.
While we scuffle through our treasures of misery,
Trying to understand the folds of pain along our seams,
Above us clouds change, waves enamel our being
And when we pause from our monumental search
We see that life has already changed.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017



כל הקיום
כולם בגעגוע

Friday, September 29, 2017

I'm in this place and time in life where I'm befriending people older than me by three-four-five decades. That's because there aren't very many young people in the Jewish community here. These new encounters are a blessing. They are enriching my life. I am invited into the homes, lives and insights of real and authentic people. I am in awe. I am connecting to their frequency and their wisdom. I am developing the elated feeling that my own story is so much richer than I previously thought.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Insight on nonviolence

A lot of flusteration and mind-looping, mental back-flips and agony bring an abundance of insights, which create an inspiring enthusiasm, as they flash into my mind at random times and at difference stages of thought-depths and -processes.

One of those insights hold the story of anger and remorse:

I am impulsive yet restrained, patient and nonviolent (I'll write more about vulnerability, helplessness and nonviolence another time) and intentionally as well as naturally refrain from any violent or aggressive actions. But approximately once every 365 days I lose my highly-appreciated patience and I am consumed by a sudden wrath. (It seems sudden, but when I unravel the preliminary circumstances I find the causes, and I understand them.) I am swallowed into it for a few hours, and at first - before I get outdoors alone and start walkingwalkingwalking fastfastfast to calm myself - my body is so overwhelmed with an immense energy of anger that strikes out from inside me through my hands, and I impulsively push Nemo away strongly when she does something that frustrates me. I push her and I walk out and I walk for hours until I calm down, all the while thinking about how tired I am, how I may just go put myself head-down in the lake and fall asleep (but I also think that I won't because Nemo needs me), how I may like to walk into the street and be hit by a car because if I'm in the ER I won't feel as embarrassed and ashamed by so many things that Little Miriam painfully carries with her, and I keep walking and walking and walking, and eventually it starts to subside, and then comes the realization of the aftermaths of my angry actions and the sorrow of having hurt or frightened Nemo on my way out of the house, my true true love, who I never ever want to hurt of frighten for even one millisecond, who loves me unconditionally, and whose connection to me I can never take advantage of by being aggressive toward her in any way. When I frighten Nemo (and myself) I feel awful about it. As the years go by the energy of anger in me becomes more and more scarce and my ability to control it becomes more and more apparent and easy, and the forces of wrath hardly ever consume me, thank goddess, maybe only once a year, maybe less...

And then I think of a few possibilities of the virtue of compassion: 

The reason I cannot tolerate using force over helpless beings, that I am "allergic" to and toxically fearful of anger and physical power (and my own anger and physical power) and that I stay away from it like from a black hole is because of the deep fear and shame I have resided in during my childhood years as a helpless being at the hands and mercy of someone physically stronger, and in this sense my nonviolence may actually not be a virtue or a moral principle that resulted in pure decision and that I can be proud of, but rather just my inclination because of trauma (which I then easily follow with an ideology of nonviolence). And in this sense, being an "ethics snob", as I sometimes feel I am, or "ethics snobbiness" in general among humans, may be void of meaning, and our ethics may be only a result of our life circumstances, which we then excuse with rationale. And even when people praise my ethics, or claim "you are a good person", I cannot claim that to my advantage, because I have not intentionally decided to be a good person instead of a bad one, but rather it's just the way I have to be, it's the way I naturally am, I really have no choice... I just am who I am, for the better or the worse. 

AND/OR it all resulted in my childhood but I did actively decide to never use violence

not wanting to hurt vulnerable beings is a natural instinct, and my nonviolence is cultivated through belief in that ideology and through strengthening that instinct, and a person who systematically hurts others must have - knowingly or unknowingly - altered or destroyed the part of the brain of compassion that doesn't allow you to be at peace with hurting others. I feel that people who hurt vulnerable beings and don't feel bad about it - or don't actively work on themselves to reverse their malice and their sin against humanity - are a) bad people, and b) must have unwired something basic in their brains and are ultimately messed up humans whom I cannot and will not understand or tolerate. 

And aside from my own pain of having scared my wonderful little beloved Nemo (even for just one millisecond and even if she doesn't remember it), I am overwhelmingly saddened by the pain caused to so many vulnerable beings across the globe, human and nonhuman animals alike, and I myself can almost not tolerate the knowledge that in myself I hold the power of destruction and violence. It scares me that I have the potential of being as awful as those who have hurt me. And it has become my mission in life to promote nonviolence and to do all in my current power to protect helpless beings instead of hurting them.

It's Rosh Hashanah tomorrow. The Hebrew New Year. This is a time of repentance.
I pray that everyone will have the courage to stop violence wherever it occurs and to promote nonviolence and compassion wherever it is needed.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

I'm really feeling a lot of gratitude at this moment
 and I want to preserve that.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Saturday, September 09, 2017

"I want to live where soul meets body and let the sun wrap its arms around me"

My body is an ambassador of my heart; I work in unison and strive for harmony between the two. When my actions are not a pure continuum of my heart's pleas and when harmony is not cultivated, the heart becomes obsessively prominent in trying to get what it wants and never fully forgives me and never fully fits in in the new situation. It takes me by the stomach, it fills me with dread, with regret, with aching sorrow of a person who has failed his own integrity, his own high ethics of conduct. And my heart is very specific and very narrow-minded. It doesn't want to try new things, it wants what it knows it wants. I have always listened to it, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, but in the end, have always consented to what it had to say (I really have no choice; when I don't, I am miserable); I attribute great respect to my heart and my intuition. I believe that the alignment of body with heart defines one's integrity and authenticity, which are of utmost importance, especially in a world of lies and corruption, where sincerity is maybe the last rope a human can rely on to be able to walk straight.

And then, I had in front of me a fork in the road: Two ways, splitting from one. Two ways the heart did not love. Two ways the heart wanted to avoid. I felt miserable trying to maze through the speculations and apprehensions of my heart, trying to be true to myself, but couldn't find a way to do it without risking folding myself into a paralysis of pain and agony. I took the road that the heart was least scared about; because if you can't figure out what will be in the future, you can possibly rely on the present.

I feel that I am in my own human experiment. I used to know (or decide) "I am doing what is right" and then go forth on a path feeling fully confident and happy with it. It's hard to say if just by chance those past paths really were perfect for me, or if perhaps I was once better at being content with the roads at hand. Whatever it is, there was a time in life when I felt whole (with all the pain and baggage I held), and then began a time when I started walking down a path that contained hardly anything that was "just right", and everything was an estimation, a guess, an experiment, and every decision was agonizing and heavy.

And down this path, there is some disharmony between heart and body. Nope, my heart is not fully content. It's not. And I'm saying "WHY NOT?" And I don't know, and I am doing things it doesn't consent to (I know because I wake up with a knot in my stomach), and living with the frustration of not being in unison with the heart. And in that sense, I feel I have failed my integrity, my sincerity. I am experimenting ways, yes, but why am I not able to go back to a situation in which the heart knows "this is my place"?

I ask myself: Will I ever find my place again? Will I ever be whole again?

Where will this experiment take me?
Can I regain my integrity? Have I perhaps never lost it?
Can I change my view of things so at to not feel at a loss with my heart, and am I capable of abandoning all the rumination I hold of the past, all the hard feelings I hold against myself with which I ruthlessly scathe myself?

I torment myself with hard questions I can't answer. I hold a high level of ethics which I urge myself to live by. That is my way. At times it's hard, but that is the true calling in my heart. I have been deprived of sincerity in my life, and it has become my mission to cultivate it everywhere and anywhere, always.

In the photo: Three people I love

Saturday, September 02, 2017


This song is so beautiful that it makes my stomach hurt. So why do I listen to it?
I like crying, I guess.
I like beauty that is so beautiful it's sad.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Wednesday, August 23, 2017


When I don't hear music for a while, I'm fine, I'm a sane forward-paced, balanced human who is mediated by reason, by flow, by outer convictions, by those around me that sail me into a soft assurance of Homeness.

When I listen to music again - it's so beautiful, it is - it's so beautiful it makes me sad, it makes me remember, it takes me back a while, it makes me lose my faith in what's forward and reincarnates my faith in what i once knew, makes me want to cuddle in the oldness of what the child in me knew to be whole.

Music just directly goes right into the core of me and makes my open heart become so fluid, so teary, so raw, young, vulnerable, nostalgic, loving everything and everyone I have ever loved.

I love them all. They are all with me at present.
I still love and cherish everyone I have ever loved.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Passions and soul-calling

A sudden interval from the anxiety and indecisiveness that have spread through me: I remember I have this passion in me that is beckoning to come out; I haven't given it space yet, but I will. It's the artist in me. It's the soul full of inspiration. It's the voice that wants to sing as soft and beautiful as the wind, play music of and to the earth, watch my own heavy but strong wings slowly rise and take off...

I found this on youtube yesterday, and it filled me with inspiration: 

Friday, June 16, 2017

Letter to Regina Spektor

When I read that Regina Spektor will be performing in Israel on August 19th, I became sad for a while, because I will be in America at that time (if I were here I'd be the #1 person to buy a ticket...)... And then I decided that perhaps I should write her a letter, to try to avert the feelings of missing out to a message of gratitude and appreciation. If anyone knows her address, please let me know.

Regina Spektor, 
Ever since the first note of yours descended onto my pitifully soft and sentimental heart with "Samson" when I was 16, I have fallen in love with your ethereal voice and all of your unique words, music and videos, sometimes surreal, playing along the lines of my own surreal and kaleidoscopic path of life. All the way from "Someday" and "Us," through "Blue Lips," up to "Black and White," just to name a few, including a short youtube excerpt of you singing Hanna Szenec' "Halikha LeKesaria," your music and art videos have been a part of my growing up. I am now 27, and your music still accompanies me through sorrow, contemplation, pain and love.  
When I was the nanny of a baby I'd sing him to sleep with Halikha Lekesaria, trying to imitate your delicate trills while trying to have the song be a steady landmark of Being-Here-ness, in the ever-changing, ever-continuous span of time and space; and when I hit confusing forks in the road (or open nomadic fields) and wanted to remember old times, I'd listen to "Samson" and let its beauty make me cry and rejoice -- although I listen to it less today than I used to, because it now makes me remember young love, which passed and gave way to a much harsher and unclear adulthood; and when I'd want to hear something fun I'd listen to "Fidelity"; or to give place to the quirkiness and arbitrarity of life, "Dance Anthem of the 80's." I'm an artist, too. An artist whose art is articulated more in the written word than in any other form, but with oceans of imaginations and creations still inside my head, which have not yet found a way through me to be formed in the real world. 
I read that you studied in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, which is where I lived until age five, when my family moved to Israel. I've lived in Israel since then, and just recently decided to travel to America for a while. And once I was already there -- 10,000 kilometers away from home -- I found out that you'd be coming to Israel in August, merely four months after I'd left! I couldn't believe it! I've been waiting for you to come to Israel for so long, and now you're making it there, but I'm not. I'm pretty bummed out about that ("mevo'eset" in Hebrew), and I keep imagining how lovely it would be to be there and see you on stage, and hear you sing your wonderful songs with your wonderful voice, in my own home country. Sometimes that in itself makes me wonder why I left for America. Because if we don't live for those escalated moments of spirituality and joy, then really there is nothing else. 
But since I won't be there, I cannot forever lament it, and must see it as not such a big deal, but... but... I really appreciate you and will miss being in Israel when you are. You are talented in so many ways. I do hope you'll come back to Israel again.
I hope that you have a full, cheering, loving audience in Tel Aviv, and that you'll enjoy your time in this special land. Don't forget to spend time in Jerusalem -- in my opinion one of the greatest (and most diverse) cities in the world. 
With thanks and appreciation toward a person who makes the world better by lighting it up with her talents, 

Friday, June 09, 2017


המילים קטנות, כפועל יוצא מהיותי קטנה,

אך הן נושאות על גבן אותי.
אני נעטפת סביבן, נשענת על עוצמתן.
המילים הקטנות שוחות
בתוך יםהשכל,
טיפות של מים,
שמזכירות הכל.
כמעט הכל מפחיד בחיים,
ומה שלא מפחיד - אינו מחזיק את כולי
ואני נושמת חצי-נשימות ואומרת
"כשאנשום עמוק אסביר לעצמי מי עצמי"
ובינתיים - רק אהיה.
המילים קטנות, כפועל יוצא מהיותי קטנה,
קטנת מימדים בעולם רם ונישא,
קטנת אמירה בעולם רם ונשמע
קטנת כוח אל מול
אלמלא המילה,
לא הייתי

Friday, June 02, 2017

Just a thought; you know how thoughts change...

Just a thought. You know how thoughts change...

Chapter 1: There are challenges that are socially accepted as worthy of drawing the support and encouragement of society, at the end of which one gets a standing ovation of pride and sympathy and “You made it!”, such as graduating from college or reaching milestones in military service, which both consist of hard work, persistence and devotion. And then there are personal hardships; as hard, challenging and risky as the above, but the sweaty, confusing, maze-like inflictions that are intrinsic in these paths are known only to the bearer of them. And as one walks them alone, huddled under the umbrella of the absurdity, abstractness and arbitrarity of one’s circumstances and mishaps, one finishes them alone (or perhaps never finishes them at all, but only gets to certain points which can lead to a resounding, albeit temporary, equilibrium of the senses and the mind), with no row of fans clapping and cheering, with only the solemn sound of one’s own breath, tired and heavy from the distances it crossed.

In the photos: seagulls flying over a beach in Monterey, California 

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

My heart tries to say:

Sunday, April 09, 2017

Friday, March 31, 2017

Speculations of the Consciousness

This is a wild speculation, based on real inspection and attentiveness to the little thoughts that line my heart. This could also be the symptoms of anxiety, which will pass, but in any case, this is what Miriam believes at 12 am on a Thursday night and then again at 9 am the next morning:

It seems to me that life is hard for me to grasp when it isn't the life I had between ages 0 and my early 20's. As if that was the life that was engraved (as if the brain was raw and moldable until then, and then the ability to change wore away), and now with every encounter my mind knows where I'm at but my consciousness doesn't sit right inside my body and there is a disconnect. The body is living a life, and the consciousness another. Or maybe the subconscious one and the narrator another. In any case, there are two entities not aligned and one of them seems drunk. You know that fleeing spot in the retina you see sometimes in your eye? Let's say that spot is Experience. It's as if the younger I was, the better I could look straight at that spot. The older I get (or the more anxious I get), I become unable to look straight at it, or it becomes hazy, no matter how much I try to focus. Like in Eternal Sunshine, when Elijah Wood's head cannot be spun around because his consciousness is not aware of what is behind it.

I always knew I connected to things deeply and strongly. Perhaps until my early 20's I brought into my heart everything around me; I opened my heart like a raw wound, and called it Love, and let every color of bravery wash in. And then the heart started sealing around it all: around the smells and the movement of fingers, around the sound of a voice, around the knowledge and words of being, around the stories I told, around the stories I was part of. And then my body had to let those things go, because I grew up, and had to move on, but my heart knew otherwise. My body let them go easily; my body said (October 5, 2014, on this blog:) "Change is scariest from afar. When it comes, you just live it. And that's what it is: Life", but my heart is still planted under the covers in a warm bed somewhere else, in another lifetime. Maybe back at age 5, or 9, or 11 when I was most scared. Or 18, or 20.

[I always imagined that if I was ever to rewake up in a specific moment in my past, and realize all the future was a dream, that moment of awakening would be when I was 8 (or 11?), in a very specific moment I remember, in the apartment my grandparents were staying at when they came to visit us in 1998 (or 2001). I must have closed my eyes right back then, and that moment was a moment of true Being: The moment to which I would return again if this were a dream, the moment at which until then everything was Real, and from then on everything was a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how I would look at it.]

The older I get, the harder it is to let someone new in. Not physically, not theoretically, but subconsciously. I really wish Tal knew me since I was younger. That's what I want. That solidness, solid love from my childhood that will stretch into my adulthood. I want the person I'm with today to be the person I'm with at age 20. And it's so hard for me to fathom the fact that Tal will always know me only from age 26, an age at which my mind was no longer as authentic as it had been back then when I was young and vulnerable and new in this world. If I was with him at age 20, all levels of my consciousness would know that I'm with him, not just half of me.

Tal likes my writing and says I'm a talented writer. He suggested today that I could be like those great writers I admire, like Lena Dunham. That I can write a book someday. That maybe I can even try out different genres, like fantasy. Like that maybe I can write a whole full-length, amazing, unique book. That conversation was a pretty cool moment for me, a moment of Grounding, of being Within, and not just About. Those moments are sometimes very rare.

I'm feeling sick. It's really late at night and I'm bent over in my bed eagerly typing away at my laptop and my back is arching and aching and I'm thirsty and so tired that my head hurts. But I feel like I have to write this. And then not fall asleep for a few hours, thinking about this and about all other things that convene into me at this point in history.