Driving today, as if I was spinning. Spinning lengths of memoirs across the road as I moved on towards the place. Waves of conversations and disasters gouging at me. I get closer to it all, while it just splinters more and more. Like film across the windshield, fast forwarding and stopping at parts, to where I can see just enough of an expression, the look towards something and then the look away.
You always have to move fast, faster than it. Or it will unwind you and all of your tape, it will untie all of your stitches so everyone can see.
The ridiculous season again. I still breathe it in and it goes straight to the rooms that it knows so well. Like coming home to a well made bed. They will always find their comfort, somewhere behind the rigid edges of what you wish you were all so content with back then. There will always be a hardwood floored room and a wall of screened windows that I know remains hinged to the back of my head until the day I die. It’s just something you can never undo or unwire, like years of old paste over a cigar box. It just will never go away. It’s one of those strawberry moments that are not even worth the telling because you know, you know that other soul will never see it as you do. I tell myself I’m lucky for that.
And I know you didn’t make me this way, I stood there and took it for much too long every time. I have grown strong in empathy with that. I should have turned back sooner in every case. Every year. Every time. I always kept telling myself just a bit longer and maybe it will make itself right. Maybe they will fix the scattered and worn pieces across the floor. They never did.
I tried. I really tried. I had countless conversations with you not in the room. Over and over in my head, me versus the walls. Like bullet points, back and forth, openings and closings – judge and jury. Debating to myself that maybe I could have flipped a switch and prevented one last disaster had I tried one second harder, one second longer. Or had I sent that one last text message that I hesitantly deleted outside my patio at 3am.
But really why should anyone have to do any of those things. Why should it even matter. I gave more than I have ever given to anyone. Sealed. Waxed. And in stone. Whether you read it or not. It was always there. It was always yours. You just never came home to open the box.
It’s late everyday at my house. My nights are long. I sleep mostly when I can’t think – and if I’m lucky I get a lucid delusional dream that puts me somewhere between me and you in a place where I just can’t touch anything but I sure am able find ways to feel everything over again, like the texture of the walls stumbling through a dark apartment hall.
I made myself forget most of the good things, just enough of them to make me not want to relive any part of it anymore.
“I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumbled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.”
― Stanisław Lem,