The day muted me. Every thing is put on hold and subdued accordingly. After errands, I crawled into bed to watch a Hemingway movie. For awhile, empathy was my superpower; now it is how quickly I become unavailable.
In a sleepless jag, I found a youtube video that played music at a frequency that could induce lucid dreaming. For hours, my not-quite-sleeping mind was some sort of freakish circus. I woke with the exhaustion that comes from playing a game of “tag” whereby I'm the fastest one running, yet I sort of want to be caught. Have you noticed how many people are more clear in the abstract?
The one true sentence reinvents itself, but I still know it when it arrives. This and other things I am unable to say.
Writing here was about saving myself until I saw the bondage in my own freedom. The crane-folded envelopes surrendered to every touch of my devoted fingers. Words were threaded into sentences and translated with ease into the love letters I never knew I'd write. All this hemorrhaging. But unmasked, I can see it is more than blood. More than folded notes nestling in paper sleeves. More than criss-crossing touch points that blared: what else can you make of this?!
In the '80's I had this sweatshirt that I cut to make the neck hole big enough so that it slipped over my right shoulder. Always the right shoulder. Why is this all so inevitable – like spring after winter's tomb, like cheese and a hardy Russian stout on cheat day?
One reader, one love. But with the masks coming off and the universe at bloom in the dinner prep and laundry and movie night at home on the couch with takeout and the whole family, then how can one allow the horizon to define the direction?
Naked in the exam room, every inch on my skin is examined by the PA while Crosby, Stills and Nash croon in harmonious duality, “Love the One You're With.” The universe drips from the ceiling as the assistant makes small talk about travel and marching band and hospital buyouts. I'm not as friendly as usual because sometimes I'm just too tired.
No birds. No tracks. No sun leaking into misty eyes. No sequel in the works.
Only here. Only now. Are we together?