The Treatment

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Maybe it’s on a Sunday night that you feel the worst, but often, also, it’s only on a Sunday night that you feel willing to take on the universes that are available to you.  Because the universe does not know how to attack.  Thoughts do, you through your thoughts know how to commit hari-kiri, how to fall on that sword time after time, or to stare at it willing it to rise or you to fall or something to happen.  You, through these thoughts, are able to think you can stop time entirely.  There is nothing but the worry, but the fear, the anxiety and the wall pressing it out.  It is this constant balance and no wonder, no wonder at all, that it is so difficult to just walk outside of all of that, letting things collapse and connect and distort and do whatever they are fated to do.  If you care, and if caring helps you even when you don’t get any other feedback, it’s really hard to say, I will let the sword cut.

I have to let it happen.  Even if it happens wrong.  I have to write the story even if the first time, the boy and girl fall in love and break apart and fall in love again just because I like that idea.  Even if it’s inherently cliched.  Because maybe that’s just what happens and we can only tell it better if we tell it once and hear the sour notes, the soft patches, the places where truth doesn’t ring true.  A story never committed to paper can’t go wrong, but the boy and the girl want to fall in love.  They do, and walking to meet one another before being deleted, before hitting a gap, before being reset into new indifference has left them gunshy and aggravated.

Why can’t we just let them sing the wrong lyrics, take the wrong steps, wear the wrong clothes to the ball?  Why can’t we let them go?

Sunday nights are the minor gateways of the year, the lesser arcana, that divine our fortunes in the diurnal, the blase, tell our fabliau.  We are both creatures of the great and the small, on every level, we have these shared parts, both necessary, both in tandem, disparate but symbiotic.

My cousin sent us a letter, now we are on the list of those who will know about the progress and outcome of my aunt’s surgery and she’s informed us all in eloquent detail about what is to come.  Sometimes I think about the end.  Mine, I suppose, though I feel I have enough anarchy in this head of mine to dwell too very long on morbid thoughts.  I think about my uncle, my father’s brother, in a medically-induced coma, this kind soul that might suddenly need all of us after staying in his own space for so long.  I remember being a girl, hearing that he had depression, not knowing what that meant, or him at all, really and asking my parents if I could send him a card.  I think I did.  I hope I actually wrote it and sent it.  Regardless, Monday comes.

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