Half-slept the night through sleep-sliding fast on an invasive, full occupying sense of wrong done, wrong done, there it is that done wrong feeling again, like ziplining toward a brick wall but not so cartoonish so don’t you dare laugh, or do, do dare. Doesn’t much matter—do you? I don’t know what I dare do. Withdraw, perhaps, that seems it, always does, or let go and fall.
Ah the wrongs. From whence and hence and thence do they come, and why do they filtrate my inwards like cold to the bones? The ingestion of substances perhaps invites them, there’s always that, seems to be, warming the inwards and warming me up to the wrongs, the substances and their enhancement—uh, triggering—of certain genetic predispositionals, that is, those good old trusty true tried homespun ways of feeling bad about being a feeling being in the midst of all this.
That’s at least a Wrong Thing, could say, though maybe not so much done as doing, a thing that around it collects other wrong things, might say, little wrong thinglets with sticky fingers and purple kool-aid tongues, more mischievous than bad, though, a little dirty and a little vexing since all they really do is scream for ice cream and cocktails and yes of course I oblige their coarse desires because it’s just me and them, or they, I mean, they and me and who are we but a roving little band of wrongs done with warmed inwards and cold cold itchy bones.
It’s all pieces, perhaps, all perhaps pieces. That’s it—yes. It’s coming: of course I won’t tell ____ about ____ and won’t they all be mad when they find out later? It’s before: I didn’t tell her or him about this and that till well after the fact, the act, the moment, and they were, because I kept the facts apart, the acts apart, moments divided by the seeming free blank space of perhaps. It’s the same, now.
Now, again, what. It’s toying with one, perhaps, missing another, perhaps, dreaming of more, perhaps, wanting to be left alone but not, perhaps—standing with the door open just enough for me to look out without them looking in because when they look in they look around and they want stuff. But I always let them have a peek, knowing better, forgetting it, nevertheless I do and who is it now come knocking.
So it’s perhaps allowing this, not disallowing that. Perhaps attention. Perhaps neglect. Perhaps so much else undone and doing and pushed aside as I pour myself on the floor and watch the self stuff coagulate and run like mercury forming shapes of things, me things, you things, other things I can be about and think about and talk/write about, all told later but straight from it, right to it, with little shimmering droplets outlying. Out lying. Funny, feels like that.
Anxious this morning, I am, that’s all, just morning, the usual. Thoroughly, blurrily, hotly anxious is all—it’s a little like being a little on fire, if a little on fire is something to be a little like, all blue gas flame-lapping and heat waves rising, I imagine, and I imagine that cold itchy bones are like kindling.
I imagine a lot of things, but not the fact that the cabinet door is unfixed, that I could still be a little unsober, that the dentist is unscheduled, some bills unpaid, some laundry unpiled, soap dispenser unfilled, that letter unmailed and several more unwritten, a job unquit, a city unleft, books unread, promises unmade, responsibilities untaken, habits unchanged, self unhinged, or coming, life unlived, and so many thoughts unthought and nos and yesses unsaid and truths untold, plans unmade but making, hearts unbroken but breaking. So much yet to do, so much sitting in perhaps and lying around in pieces unplaced and mis.
Maybe if I didn’t go to bed each night thinking the same day won’t come…
Night is sacred, at least till the waking, at least when I’m waking to this. Because at night words—true words, whole words, mine and no one’s—write themselves in half-sleep and I wake up with them on me like bed smell till the languages of perhaps pieces crowd back in again and I look down at the reminder-strings of everything I’m so-called supposed knotted too tightly around blue-tipped fingers, reminding, reminding to undo and untie and all I feel is wrong done, every last one of every unnameable wrong done.
To be beholden to nothing, no one, though, not even myself (note for later), but to be beheld. It comes down to that, I think, I imagine, loud and clear; I remember from the night’s night scrawling—it’s the crease on my cheek and the empty glass on the table, the notebook still open and marked for safe keeping, myself marked for unsafe thought and the warmth of the sheets from holding me, always something holding me.
Beholden to nothing, but beheld.
Sufficient. No, desired. No.