3916

a sudden slant of light falls across a room of cobweb clutter and i am reminded of a meeting. of its insignificance replaced with light-etched memory. a sudden slant of light falls to reveal the volatility of a moment. a figment of evaporation leaving behind light-etched memory. almost tangible. the significance of it remains as a smile cornered on a deathbed in a room of cobweb clutter.

proof of concept

It still feels like 2016. It still feels like the most important year of my life. It still feels like the end of my childhood. I still want to talk to him. It’s driving me mad it is it is it is. I still want to talk to him and I’m wondering why I am sitting here not talking to him and talking to this person and to that person and enjoying my life but still but still still weeks and months and security lost later still wanting to talk to him. Still thinking about him constantly. Consistently? Repeatedly. Reminded. Still wishing him well in my head in my head always in my head and waiting waiting waiting for him to tell me for him to reach out to me and tell me he’s doing well and tell me he felt my well wishes and tell me he held that feeling in a place in his heart until it warmed him until it cleared away cobwebs until it helped him realize he could be doing well because someone wants too much so much so badly so desperately for him to be alright – more than alright: wonderfully – because he is wonderful and I am terrific and I am doing terrifically as I sit here sit here sit here and think always thinking always thinking about him and wondering what he’s doing and hoping it’s well – more than well: wonderfully. Because he is wonderful and I am terrific and I am happy now but still so sad. So sad but happy with myself. So satisfied but wanting more. So conflicted but existing peacefully in so many states. I don’t know what I want right now because I want nothing I want something I want someone but I’m not as caught up in my emotions as I used to be. I let them flutter let them fall watching them as they crash to the floor like a teardrop like the loudest scream like the silence that rings out as time stops having meaning. I do miss the feeling of being passionately in love with a person who exists like a concept – like more than just an individual with individual problems and insecurities and interests and dislikes – both external and internal and expanding – expanding and filling the chest I leaned my head on and felt so very much in love with so very much in love with a person like a concept like a too-good-to-be-true like a Form. The chest with the message printed on it – the reminder to live the best life possible – the reminder that this will all end and you will see it in slow motion as it ends before your eyes and just out of the reaches of your grip – a reminder of a dream a twenty-two year old had and was fighting every day to turn into a reality to turn a concept to a proof.  The constant struggle of self-definition that is classified by experts as anxiety. The constant struggle of being too in a head too in a head too in a head where else does one go where else is there where else could I be? Explained external complaints becoming. I’ll hold them deeply and let them devour me. I’ll change the subject: I’ll make it all about me. He’ll hold them deeply and let them devour him. It’s all about me as I sit here and I think about what it’s like for it to be all about someone else for someone else who is making their own decisions based on all the information they are able to contain all that they can bear to bear witness to to carry to be burdened with. It is difficult to live with your eyes open. I’ve turned a blind one a few times a few times maybe too many but it’s all relative based on other outcomes of other choices that I will never be able to choose because time is linear and this is my path. I’ve turned blind eyes I’ve ignored what is obvious. It’s fear it’s all fear and I’m terrified and terrible and taking turns to shaded places where it’s too dark too dark far too dark to see. A blind eye in a dark room in the isolation of a mind a mind inside of a head that is too active too panicked too scared to believe that there is more outside. More than a concept in a head leaning on a dream written on a chest.

involuntary actions

I have goosebumps patterning my flesh that tell me the temperature is too low. I have pupils that dilate when moving from day to dark. My heart races as a clock ticks counting down. My breath is heavy matching quickened footstep sounds. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have your voice in my head saying “To Be Continued” followed by a month-long ellipse read as a worn out question mark. I have your voice in my head in the silence of this room. I have the silence of this room. I have the emptiness of this room. I have the freedom to rebel, to be remiss, to try to profit, to counterfeit. I have the choice to hold, the choice to steady, and the choice to overflow. To overwhelm, to stand up straight, or to reap what seedy deeds I’ll sow.

I have goosebumps patterning my flesh that tell me the temperature is too low. I have pupils that dilate when moving from day to dark. My heart races as a clock ticks counting down. My breath is heavy matching quickened footstep sounds. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have a feeling that I’ll choose to let that feeling win, as my conscious clear fights off the fog and my patience thickens with my skin.

waiting for a date at a bar

Self-amused so self-amused so self-amusing waiting.  Deciphering a glass completely full of beer as a pessimistic situation.  If I could transform this into water I would, but what else is an antichrist to do? Sit and wait so cute and adorable? So sacrilegious, but so sweet too. Bought as a bar stool’s user’s fee: alcohol’s a tired drug.  But fine for sipping slowly sipping while rested others mindfully tug. 

Self-amusing self-amusing so self-amused and weighted. Recombining strings of thought into one just one persuasion. Placing each piece part by part to form a many-sided section.  This continually combined force-expansion is a compulsively-contrived self-embarked planless misadventure in perspective. Writing what’s unwritten as it’s revised by hapless happenstance: growing expectations form a shrinking image based on the fruitful failures of the past.

Self-amused and self-amusing so self so self so self-contained. Internal thoughts are internal combustion as a nullified hindrance watches mutually stoic wood grains. Time and time and timeliness: no punishment in consequence of no committed crime. Nothing moves save for all that’s moving, and everything is falling asynchronously in line.

Nothing moves but it’s all moving: self-righteous self-controlling cogs aid the plan of one machine. Alive alive alive and breathing: everything appears exactly as it seems. Just some added complication, just some muffled background noise, just myself sitting with my own delusion on an island of misfitting toys.

This is my play. This is my play. Just another dull part of a doldrum day, and then a blip jumps from the white of static and I turn to analyze its lurid noise. His arrival grazes barely touching with the self-puppetry of a hope so self-reprieving.  So I’ll take control and pull some willing strings, until relieved I’ll watch them slacken. My role here tonight is of a quitter who didn’t want to win, who’d wish a well-meaning goodnight to anyelse before the inevitable sunset.  

one year’s time

Summer is a line from my chest to yours that tautens as I move closer, as you reel me in. A setting sun’s indifferent angles’ shifts bring colder times as you pull away, as I stay in place. Autumn’s ever-changing colors, commit to one: jet black. Snap. Fall back. Unloosed from ties that bind. Years of choices, scripted fates, planning pointing unknowingly toward one small part of a much bigger destiny: just mine.  This is a low point, this is post-fall. This is the brutality of time passing too slowly, too quickly fading away.

Winter’s fix: a snowflake. Complex, unidentical, quickly melting between fingertips. Whitewash in aggregate, but too hopeful, too heated body’s grip’s too tight, too fast: clear-coating. Hungry eyes can’t learn to wait: melting quick-fixes, blurring to new mistakes.  After is a resurrection, after is the spring. Not healing, but reborn. Not fixing, but restarted. Moving on and moving away. Up, up, up and floating. I lost my grip, I lost my hold. Forgetting the bigger picture, for a self-doctored centerfold.

undefined periods of solitude

The strength to say goodbye came from the desperate need to say hello again some time in the maybe-but-hopefully-not-so-distant future. Goodbye felt like a strategy. It felt like a plan, to her. To him, it was a point of stress he wanted to forget. To give in rather than have one more source of anxiety to quell. It was all too much.

None of it was easy. Letting go, cutting strings: those are final decisions. Calls put on hold, a welcome back home: those are situations unwritten and still in waiting: potential future tragedies: the ghosts of footsteps falling backwards. But those sweet steps forward, those eventual maybe potential tears of joy: they’d wash away an ocean of those shed for damp-eyed farewells.

That sigh of relief. That warm embrace. That long-awaited gaze. His name. His face. They could make moments explode and decades shrink to not enoughs. They are everything worth waiting for. They are everything.