Worryingly, one of the cats who had something of a cyst on her tail doesn’t anymore because it’s erupted in some sort of way that is not appropriate for post-dinner conversation and I myself don’t know what this means. My sister has leapt into action and is taking the dear little black cat, who is small enough to really just be handless sock puppet, to the vet and I hope that she’ll get there in time to get properly treated.
That was not the way I had intended to finish out the day. Another day of me choosing less than, of me scuttling forward with my shoulders around my ears. In parts, in bits. Not completely, but enough to pay attention. It’s not copacetic, it’s not thrilling or relaxing, it’s rough right now.
It would be nice, I thought, as we daubed blood off the cat’s tail and as I scrubbed it out, out damn spot from the floor, to have you with me when things like this happen. Mr. Future. You with your ethereal aura and your wormholes to travel the world. It would be nice to have you on the line or in the bed when we curl up and say, oh, dear, that was terrible? To not just have to say “I’m okay” and have to draw from my own stores for the stuff that will distract it enough to survive. To have a hand on these knotted-up shoulders. All of that would be really nice and it is verging on necessary.
Sublimation can make a life, but what kind of life does it make?
So, I tell the Faithful Light who never fails to extend her hand, a hand that is never to rub the shoulders, never to offer comfort, but ever to pull me to my feet and get me back on the pathful path, I tell her to point me westward. I stumble a few steps and keep trudging. Not dancing, not leaping, but not flat on my back waiting for geology to make its use of me.
I am willing to listen. To not shut down the idea of more and betterer. To be mindful. To revel in the possibilities this world offers. To endure another day.
I am willing to open up Pandora’s Box and to think of you again. To think of myself as part of you, to think of myself as able to share this sort of half-empty angst with you, to think that the pains and hurts you swallow and survive might be lessened by being sent to my heart. That this might be why love happens at all.
Mr. Confusion darts across my mind from time to time. Well, less of a dart and more of a deliberate stride beyond my faculties. Mr. Rochester goes, too, as ghoulish and ghostly as he dares. Both get lost in the patterns in the wall if you don’t focus on them. They weren’t the right ones. You know? Whatever they were or did or wanted or added or subtracted, they weren’t, in the end, someone who could take the quiet of this worried moment with me. They didn’t stay. They weren’t the right ones.