Bailey Connolly

It’s Friday morning and my eyes are burning with a lack of sleep as if I had splashed them with yerba mate instead of water; as if I had mistaken my eyes for my mouth just as I had mistaken 12 o’ clock midnight for 12 o’clock noon as a befitting time to drink a few cups last night. I’m steeping more tea as I write, thinking about the difference between obsession and addiction, ritual and escape. 

We had begun to fantasize out loud yesterday, in the way that we’ve slowly come to talk about everything, excitedly recognizing each other in ourselves despite being poles apart. I wonder how it is that two things, two works of art, or two individuals, can simultaneously embody such intense similarity and difference. How something, someone, can be both this and that. I remember a conversation I had years ago, with someone I had obsessed over and have yet to fully escape from, in which they used the situation of someone playing tug of war with their dog as a metaphor for the inescapable violence of love, or maybe love as violence and how oftentimes they are one and the same. I think this idea is both beautiful and very overwhelming. 

As if expected, it’s now Tuesday, November 13 and my blog entry has been sitting in my drafts folder since Friday. I’m drinking mate as I write this, questioning if this mate-induced-mania I’ve come to love is also violent. 

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