I'm reading Virginia Woolf; feels like I couldn't possibly have read her works at any other time in my life but exactly now. 

A few weeks ago I just felt like therapy wasn't helping us any more, especially not teaching me anything more. Coincidentally, things have been feeling more like our early days and years, not because of therapy but just because. I felt like the need to go to therapy, or that to fix something, was possibly misplaced. Even though it taught us things.

Getting older has been more sobering lately. There have been more than 5 people I've had conversations and connections with worth reminiscing. But yes conversation, the idea of it, the potential it holds, is limiting or is limited. So much more is said by a look, a pivoting of someone's gaze or body toward or away from me, shock and embarrassment, chuckles, and involuntary bodily reactions, ...

There's a conversation without words I have been having with someone for about 6 years now, over rare sightings a year or two apart. What will I say if I could talk? Would anything be valid be true and be sayable? Would trying to put a form to that inexplicable thing kill it in the process? There is a restless anxiety to talk and to communicate, and yet the past has taught me that I have wasted it and that it dies it's death after a futile bout of time.

There were times I wondered why he wasn't insecure of my affections, why never jealous. He said it was because I always told him things. Once he did get angry, frustrated. Makes me smile today when I think of his lack of insecurity regarding me, as he sleeps peacefully while I lie around restless in the middle of the night, reading and writing. We have both been sensible, patient, and loving, even when we couldn't make love, or I couldn't desire him. 

But also sex is more and less than everything people attribute to it.