Not spending all my days in a thoughtless daze, but that mood set in last night–one of abandon. I let the wheel go and drove several feet on the opposite lane.
A nightmare followed. If I were to describe its affect, it would be something like being let down in exactly the way you feared you would, but that you would not have expected to actually occur: the feeling of having an unlikely possibility actualize itself.
Now I sit and keep planning, knowing there is no secret to feeling better through planning, but planning because it gives the semblance of safety and control, though I very well know its legs to be as wobbly as mine.
Would have liked to phrase it differently, but I couldn’t allow myself to write down the sentence as it wanted to be. Rearranging the words was just as difficult, so I stripped it of all other words but “love” and went back to bed.
Was it stolen? It was not; it was seized and belonged to the seizer. If it eluded everyone else’s attention, she did it service by letting it go unknown, unlived. She–a mere recorder of what he was recording, many times removed from the fact but the only one capable of lending word to his deed. And his deed was only to be found in his word: nothing done that was not retold in a story embellished over a process she affronted, though sometimes blindly revered as we all do supposed mysteries, or those things we can’t ourselves reach and don’t firsthand know.
It was so with words that he would build a room with many windows and no view, curtains drawn so as to sit in the privacy of that construct. It did not occur to him to eliminate onlookers, maybe liking the thought of being secreted in front of others right in their own world’s center.
It was here where they would reliably encounter each-other, sit with books alap and read with fervor, touch arms on purpose like it was not on purpose. It was on the border of this dreary center, on a night so torrid and gusty that it inverted her best umbrella, that she learned the story’s end–an end to a truth she could only contingently spin over his.
He invented the discomfort of the season so as to provoke closeness.The puddles were black and the rain blacker. The denunciation of his own sensitivity. The near-tear jerk. The truest way to speak to the vanquished moment.
Put all their faces in one album, all their sentences in one story. They know nothing of each-other, though each is known by me in light of the others and I’ve made of them a crowd, an intimate circle. Have drawn them close as the strangers they are and will remain to each other.
In tidbits and nuances they maintain a sinuous, continuous, tightly-knit persistance. A reservoir of experiences, the fainter lines of its preliminary sketches erased for good. Known once by me only, and now lost.
All we see and build off of is its final construct, architecturally sturdy but its different parts flimsy, fictitious. As a whole, recognizable by none of them, though each can probably see a corner or carpet that was taken from them, or a window to stick their heads through and partake.
An unknown’s face framed by fliers, outside a wall-sized window.
Cigarette fumes hit the glass and bounce back to eyes that look at their own reflection.
Furrowing brows, spasmodic lips.
The eyes recall twenty amusing sensations at once and the mouth sweeps them aside with one (less amusing) dictum.