Nothing will prepare you for the first few weeks of falling in love. Fears will rise. Old habits will return. We will examine our navels and hope to find a clue to if, how, or when the downward pressure of the rocket launch will lessen. I can’t even move about the cabin yet. Now, I’m clocking three weeks. Holy shit.

But things are stuttered and confusing from time to time. Is this real? Am I making this up? Is my romanic love reality distortion field in high use, or is this something real? How do we know? What would be the sign that we’ve completely lost our mind and need immediate medical attention or sedation?

Sleeping has been intermittent. Passion unfortold and scorching. And GLITCH.

Oh shit.

I felt that deep in my heart. I can’t take another heart attack at this point in my life. I hope to live many more (maybe 30) years. Who knows?

How did I come to imagine that my ideas and idealistic aspirations were possible? How did I fall into a vortex so strong that I began questioning my own survival? I mean, seriously! After the work I’ve been doing, the years of solo-climbing, how is it possible that one human (amazing as they are) could stop my forward motion cold?

I’m supposed to be working on my next job. So is she. I’m happily requesting my unemployment checks and writing poetry. I’ve definitely gone around the bend. But is it fatal? Fateful? Or just a mad rush of hormones and chemistry between us?

The altered state, however, seems to be mirrored by this one amazing person. My person? I don’t really believe in all that Soulmate bullshit. I don’t. I think love is action, love is work, and love is continual renewal and revival. What in the world has happened to my roadmaps? How has one person lit all my starmaps on fire? Is that good? Am I high?

I am not high.

And, as stated before, I do not want a *high* relationship. I want a steady and stable relationship. I require some aspirational elements, but Jesus… she’s taken the legs out from under me. I’m wobbly.

I know I would recover should it become unsustainable. Should the fire not return, now that a few complications have slowed our ascent. I mean, I’m not talking marriage or moving in together. I’m thinking it, though.

Hi, my name is John, and I’m addicted to emotional inflamation.

On the glitch spectrum, things are coming back to within tolerances. For a minute there, I wasn’t sure. I’d rather burn up in passion than die alone. My aspirational quest may have been met by an equal and emotionally vital force. I may be making all of this up.

There is a girl. We talk a lot. I mean, a lot.

And even in the disappearance of the known universe, I am not afraid.

Okay, that was a lie. I am terrified. I’m making this all up. My own hype-mind is overreacting to YES and flipping out at NO. Or wait. Or, um… Something is not right.

Today, everything is right again. The flipturn was useful and I am heading back on the sprint to the finish. In high school, I false-started in the state finals of the 50-meter freestyle. I came in 7th out of 10. I punched a locker afterwards and my hand bled in a icey towel back to school, where I went to see Nurse Nancy.

I’m not punching any lockers today. I’m resting comfortably in my own home, under the weight of my cat, Sid. She joins me, seeks me out, whenever I’m back home. How in the fucking world am I thinking about how to introduce my two cats to her cat and dog? Please, send help or prayers.

I’m going anaerobic. I need to focus on my craft and my cash flow again, before things get out of hand. I feel fine, though. I can’t complain, other than the fear that I’m creating this entire fantasy and will soon wake up to the crashing loss of life or limb.

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