The date on this entry does not really reflect it publication because, for the last month, real life has taken priority over writing. This is the first time in years that I’ve simply written a stream-of-consciousness essay for this project without the usual exercise of reflection and procurement, which I’ll probably abandon for the next few entries to see what might be laying dormant in my head.

But aren’t confusion and drift truer to how lives get lived? Isn’t structure a contrivance?

At least for this entry, I don’t even have a purpose other than maybe to think out loud about some concepts I read recently in a book I didn’t really even think I liked until I wrote this sentence. Davey’s tacit complaining in her book Index Cards: Selected Essays were a tolerable put-off, but I appreciate her honesty. At least we seem to be on the same wavelength about the value of randomness and our need to accept it. The theme is woven into almost every tangent of her written thoughts, which eventually I found just familiar enough to tolerate her essays on a lifestyle unfamiliar to me and finish the book.

Anyway. Now that the three of us have been isolated and alone for most of the year, I am more aware of how the conscious decisions I made nearly ten years ago set me on the trajectory to this present life. Back then it was only obvious to one friend how much I was wandering. I would tell him how much talking to him changed my life, but I wouldn’t want to burden him with the eventual split of his two friends — instead I’ll remember that time when I realized changing my life meant changing my self, and have the occasional FaceTime beer with him.

A few days ago, while she and I were in bed talking, I told her we have never failed when we simply acted for ourselves in a difficult situation. It was my way of saying ‘I love you,’ but it was also an admission. I never had so much confidence until I met her. And I only found it because I stopped counterfeiting my security.