When I don’t write, I feel like I am wronging something–not myself directly, or any imaginary entity, but the passing, the happening, the event–all that requires a hanger which I can provide, but don’t.
It’s as though I’ve designated myself as the preserver of the important, trusting no other to take on that task. And that’s how it should be…
So moments like this, when I stumble on my own words, when I bite down unwelcomed malcontent, self-doubt, and trepidation–these are moments that come down hard and force me to bring them further down with me.
There is nothing else to pull me together. I am a scattering of gestures, responses, intentions, reservations. I step on my own unknowns with red rain boots, as I pass them in collecting puddles. Protecting myself from infinite imaginable threats; hoarding three umbrellas in my closet, I use none of them and, as a result, get soaked.
And I look at my reflection any chance I get as I move through the city with vacillating speed, to soothe myself that I am being held together, if only seemingly so, in a physical manifestation. But the Stoics would criticize me: taking care of myself can’t be a kind of psychological consolation.
It must be the allowance of letting all I am capable of feeling to take shape, as it is. To inspect my attachments to things and at the same time to feel the tearing away of these things. To understand that what I can preserve isn’t me as held together by what I hold on to but me as alive and, as I am now, doused in an unspeakable nothingness that will not fill despite attempts to fill it.
This becomes an apparatus with which I tear through fog, turning leaves, black asphalt.