Being “someone” felt like taking care of a baby that wasn’t mine, sad little helpless stinking bundle of other people’s exhaustion, expectations, and distress, alone
Commiserations in the negative, the mutuality of dissatisfaction and disgust, even anger, if delicate senses of wished-for dignity found offense to take. Storybook characters thinking themselves descended of Caulfield, but to what end? Conclusions are such a funny preoccupation of youth, dawn obsessed with dusk.
The ground again, yesterday, it’s still there, or was, and it’s still hard with these pauses to tell where one step begins and the last one ends, so might as well admit I’m still somewhere on it, the ground, that is, though proud this time (for once?), not so much held down as simply looking, […]
Everything I tell you is a story, or a part of one, and I’ve no inclination-desire to be less esoteric, only to be more poetic. The tussle with content and form, with self, in fact, un-fact, and all its reconstructions, even selflessness with the “I think” qualifier to down-tone the pathology, and how and in […]
There’s a hole in my chest where the truth’s supposed to be. There’s a hole in my head where this creation’s supposed to be. I’ll pour everything in, I wonder, filling it, suppose, and what will be left. What will, answered, but French-braided ambiguity.
Esmeralda, how much of what we do is out of fear of humiliation? I fill people up with my secrets like little pools and walk away when I can no longer stand to see what they reflect.
If I sit down now I’ll never get up again and then we’ll never know. If we never know we’ll never go. I know.