In case you all couldn’t already tell / didn’t know, I’ve been “back-blogging”.  I take a few notes (or detailed ones, when I was good about keeping track in my planner), take hopefully a few photos, and when I have time to sit down and write, I try to accurately write about the day.  The only thing worse than trying to do this is trying to do the same thing in my journal.

I finished one of my books in the morning, a difficult book of essays to read that put me in a funk I only crawled further into after a particularly infuriating ride on the metro.  By the time I met Henry in Nørreport, I was sort of a wreck.  We walked for about half a block before I finally just said “I have to be alone.  I’ll go get us some coffee and meet up with you in like 10 minutes”, which, as it turns out, is a very hard thing for me to say.  I don’t like walking away from someone when I’m feeling upset, but it turns out, taking some time to breathe and process before spending time with someone you care about who wasn’t the one who made you feel crazy in the first place is a good thing.  I’d like to work on better being able to walk away when I need private time (that and managing my hanger before it becomes that).

We wandered through the Christmas market again, enjoying the gorgeous sunset on the bridge and taking in all the Christmas lights while seriously contemplating warm wine and churros (the ever present questions) but decided against it.

It was….a strange day.  Johannes snapped at me Danishly (meaning, polite but very clearly annoyed) for being in the kitchen late, though not later than the allowed time.  I couldn’t shake the funk my book had put me in and was disappointed with M Train and had already read Even Though I Don’t Miss You for a fourth or fifth time so I picked up Just Kids and decided to give it another read.

When Henry and I were still in Seattle I had gotten two copies of the book and we had read it together.  I’m very certain it played a part in our wild romanticism about the whirlwind of our relationship.  Never give two artists who like each other a book about two artists who are young and in love and spend all their time managing being poor and making art (except always do that; it was great).  I’m going through again with a pen and more patience, hoping to glean a little more or see if the whole thing fills my eyes with stardust again.

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