just go

We spent the evening drinking bad drinks and talking about whatever came into our minds just then. We talked about why she hated driving and why I cared so much about music. We talked about bikes and stories and the drinks we were having. And she kept asking me to clarify when I'd talk--choosing the right words or the wrong words to paint every picture perfectly, carefully--and she'd ask "but what do you mean by this?" or "how do you define this?" or "but how do you do that?" and eventually I ran out of definitions and I'd just say "you just fucking do, man." There isn't a trick to it. You either have it or you don't. It's not something you wrap up with words. I don't have a word for everything. That's why there's things I don't talk about.

But that's the world she lives in. There's a trick to it. There's a definition there. She uses words because they're right, not because they're beautiful or poetic or descriptive. They define the world instead of describing it, for her.

After drinks we walked for a while, not quite drunk and not quite sober, and found a park that was mostly empty and a tree that looked climbable. I climbed up into it and sat on one of the branches, and she tried to climb it, and kept saying she was too drunk for this, she didn't know how to climb up, and couldn't I just tell her how to do it? And I just kept saying there wasn't a trick to it. You just fucking climb it. Like most things, it's all in your head.

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