Aiming for a resurrection. Or at least a couple hours sleep.
Frozen in space.
I just know there are five hundred words to be had. If I can just reach my arm up to grab them. So many nights, I look out and it is this massive, placid ocean in my head. To disturb it feels like it can only lead to sinking, to falling into everything, every story I’ve ever wanted to share. Instead, I float on the skin of it all. It’s a little bit frightening when you feel yourself completely slip away and get swallowed up inside the process of a new passion. Writing will sustain me. This new poison, this new placebo, this is only a short-term solution, a shot in the arm to get you up and moving. To be excited and not dreadful and dreading for a moment.
Pertinent to certain facts of this particular case that amuse only and specifically me.
There is something that has left me living on Faberge eggshells. No heavy moves. No concrete blocks. No sincere emotion. The only key to the success of now as opposed to the failures of the past is the ability to ignore the impulse to not engage and just be present to him. I am aware now that I crave aloneness, but that’s because it’s the center of the floor, flat and safe, and entirely surrounded by risk at all sides. To go anywhere at all is to crunch something glittering, delicate, that might be stared at and adored, held aloft in the light. But what can you do with that beautiful egg once you’ve felt its edges, made your appraisals, but to set it back down to exist outside of you. It is parallel, but equally separate as everything else.
I want to run the worn-out tapes again with this new soundtrack of freshly cut, heady delight. I want to carry it down into the dark spaces, into the city centered in the black of the water, and lock all the doors. I want to sit, cross-legged, private, shrouded, at the very center of my mind. I don’t care if the towers crash around me, the clutching arms yank at mine, the woe and water choke the throat. I want to live the old ways, the old magic, the freedom to spend my every waking hour in polishing the lustre of my own visions. A taut circle fed by content and spinning around and around until is enough of a spire to spin through stone. Everything I knew I had to give up to change, to gain access to knowing someone else.
I am not, at this moment, a good girlfriend.
This is dangerous. An hour in the dark and the water feels shallow again, feels like I could run through it and make it to the other side.
After nights of silence, of a retreat to match my own, he’s sent me a card with no words, just scent. Roses and sandalwood so I’ll know. I’ll know something of a thing I can’t know this way at all. A skin I lay on the surface of
The world feels better when its ankles aren’t tied to cinder blocks.
It is a good dream.
Other worlds, other stories that are not mine. Eventually, you sicken, eventually you die, eventually a small, blonde-haired girl eats the last orange and drinks the last shot of gin and never comes back inside.
Sometimes I like the title so well, I hardly think to ruin it with more writing.
Allure is an odd quality to maintain when you don’t do anything to maintain it. Sweatpants, hair askew, smears aplenty, and oh, you are beautiful.
Belief. He believes in something he has entirely made up and I will never meet this woman no matter how I try.
Clever. Somewhere in this girl is an ounce of concentrated cleverness that if I could crack the can open of, would make a hell of a cake.
Doubt. What the hell am I going to be able to do about any of this?
Exhaustion. It’s the creepy kind that comes just from not doing enough.
Frightening to imagine that there’s no improvement possible, only defending against further decline.
Games. I am in the middle of real games, fake games, games I can’t win, games nobody else is playing but me.
Hiraeth. Everyone feels it, everyone knows the word, but it’s only because we are all desperate for it.
I, on top of I, on top of I.
J. What am I to do with you? You keep asserting closeness, but refuse to discuss the absence of distance.
K. Kin. I need to call my mother.
Larceny. It’s so late in the day and what I wouldn’t give to just steal a few more hours to feed my obsessions, good and bad.
Mush. When you don’t work the body, don’t work the mind, you end up with mush.
Now. There is no other time to begin so why aren’t we starting?
Obsession. I am nursing a few and it’s a helpless feeling. Waiting to hear something is going to change when you’re the only one who can do it.
Popcorn. Or Pizza. Or Pain or Pea Soup or Particulate Matter.
Quixotic, obvious, but necessary, because there really is no other choice I would choose.
Rarefy. A concerning word, but I pull the concertina and hear the ra-ra-raaaaaah as it collapses and expands and suddenly, we know the letters and where they need to go and world rights itself.
Sweetness. In all of this twitterpation, I realize how I am beginning to lose sight of what the word means. I know this day is not the day to put in the query, all my answers would come back haughty and cruel.
Trickery. I’ve resorted to extreme alphabetical trickery to just get myself in the position to put words on paper.
Unhorse. The longer we run, the faster a pace we can meet, the closer we get to reach the misericorde over and unhorse the rider that chases after us.
Vivify, you vivisectionist! Verify my verisimilitude, verily, with verity!
Willfulness. Sometimes obedience is not an option, sometimes, it does not even come to mind.
Xavier. There’s a name. I wouldn’t name my kid that, but it is pulling up old memories that don’t precisely make sense.
Y, why not? Are not? Why? Are we going to dither?
Z, zero fight