I’m hating tonight with the heat of a thousand suns. Bottles of Texas Pete? It matters not. I simply cannot stand the divide between myself and another, the feeling that there’s even a sliver of space between us. It doesn’t just rock my world. It upsets the delicate balance of things, not the way things are supposed to be, but the way I know them to be. Just as I know Pluto is a bona fide planet. And Tyra Banks is a model and not a talk show host. Some things just are.

I’m not sure how it happens, but there are times when we’re so inside of ourselves, so convinced that our right is Right, that we disconnect. We all do it, indulge if you will. I’m quite sure we believe we’re engaged. We breathe and touch and see, after all. We say please and thank you. We fold potato chip bags appropriately and place a pillow on the worn creases that show us it’s in its proper place. But we’re not at all connected. An action more innate, reflexive, than a rinse and repeat, we slide inside a personal bubble and the world is only about us. It’s a tiny little dome of our experience and the belief that where we are at any given moment is perfectly acceptable no matter its impact on those around us. In the perfect storm, it’s a splendid environment for maintaining emotions at a simmer, whether or not we even know the heat is turned on.

When we fight from the bubble, viewpoints become mantras laminated and kept in a rear pocket. This is the way things are, the fortune reads, your position not to be altered despite your firm belief in the capacity for human change. You rant. You rage. You feel incredulous that someone you love so much can be so far away, surrounded by his own dome of rights and wrongs. And for those 10 minutes, sometimes 20, even if you have the urge to reach out and say what you really want to, you don’t. Defenses have arrived, and suddenly those blurry moments are about prodding and pushing limits rather than reaching out in a moment of need. I’m afraid right now. And I love you so much.

Instead you’re off in a huff, at times clanking anything in your reach loudly, and falling asleep alone and miserable. Missing an arm around you and wishing maybe you had been the one to reach out, to make the effort to reconnect. I’m here for you. And this moment isn’t forever.