10/5/10
Sometimes I remember our childhoods exist and don't know whether to laugh or cry. I never loved you when we were near, but now, scattered by wind and time and inclination, I wonder if I should have. If I could have.
I think of my existence here, of my reality now, and try to remember or pretend that it's something that is happening. I am not a stranger in this place and each moment and breath it becomes more of me.
If I returned de-spectacled and happy, would you even recognize me? This life sees no difference. I am what I am in a six-week static and to be any different is I-didn't-know-you-well-enough-before.
I'm not even certain I remember how to write in a way that isn't wordvomit. I don't know comment exige polished. I scarcely express myself in English entirely. I'm losing my talent, my touch.
And yet and yet and yet here I am happy and I feel sonnets for someone new and I scarcely commit them to paper. Here I laugh as in "your entire body shakes when you" and I let old words of past poets sink from my memory into my skin and admire the look of my own handwriting on paper and remember how it feels to be a writer, talent or none be damned.
I exist with the desire to label things beautiful and to make things beautiful and feel my heart swell and break and swell again when I think of how he said, "This feels beautiful." And that boy over there is reading the same email I got earlier today and if that's not community, I don't know what is.
We share this place and there's something magical about that and if I can't make anyone understand--if the best I can do it justice is this emotional outpouring on paper with shifting yous and constant mes--then I will scribble to my heart's content, until I have used up the Pokemon pencil I love you for giving to me.
I look at pictures of who I used to be and cannot believe (perhaps this is a reincarnation I could trust?), literally cannot believe, that I evern loved him. And if that eve- looks like two letter that make two words with two meanings, so be it, for they both apply.
and my mind more calls up recollections of lunchtime reflections on religion and righteousness and I wonder how I'm really supposed to feel. You heart (your mind?) can, and perhaps will, get the best of you in a way you can never expect and I begin (and continue) to wonder if "goodbye" means "not now" or "not you". And I hope in vain and in vain and in vain. And maybe someday it will be true. And you.
I don't know when this should end of if this should end, but you make me laugh and my hand continues to move across the page in a simple, easy wordflow that I haven't felt for long before. And a deep, glorious satisfaction at that mixes and mingles with this quiet and the joy I feel at being here and the tremors I feel at seeing you, and eventually I begin to feel as though the world has righted itself. As though the right choices have been made. And all this which I feel in my head (and in an ache somewhere in my lower back, where such feelings as must manifest themselves as discomfort come my way) competes with a nagging desire for a chocolate muffin and an increasing need to take a piss for the nine millionth time today.
And I don't know if I can ever stop writing and I don't know if I can ever love in a way that's right, and I twitch my hand into words in a way that fears your precious Pokemon lead is going to break. Some things are not acceptable and so I shy away from proper nouns.
My hands have started to shake, to ache. I cannot stop. I cannot continue. I'm flashing back to a wedding of my youth with no particular stimulus. I begin to shiver, to quiver, my head a hot mess of pain, and think perhaps it's time to go and let sound reawaken me, so things can be real encore.