If you could only find a way in, you could turn your life around. Find the words you have needed to say for centuries. They’d just be hanging there from the lush summer trees like ripened fruit.
But to find a way in you’d have to be able to bear to look at your life straight on. This is excruciatingly hard to do because of all the lies you’ve told yourself over and over about movement, freedom, power, and how death will never come for you. But you want it. You want clarity so badly. Cognitive dissonance. You seek it and kill it off simultaneously. Mother and maiden and murderer.
The sweet liquid honey of tempting fate just to feel your body melt until it disappears.
I pull a white stone plate from the cabinet and set out my meal. I eat in small portions. I am thinking about ways to run. I am happier than I deserve. This part cuts closest to the bone. Happiness is a knife. Trust no one who seeks it out on purpose.
The brutality of light. This is written on a thin slip of paper which is tucked under my sleeve in a dream. Poets in their dark studies all across the land. Poets as pools of midnight star stuff, floating like dead fish. Eyeless, tongueless, shapeless, helpless. What on earth do we think we know so well we should write about it.
I am starting to notice patterns in the jacked nature of human interactions. No, that’s not quite right. I have always noticed them I just couldn’t piece it together in a way I could articulate. Shy kids in corners. The heated rage of rejection. Silent humiliation. The patterns of destruction and chaos which are woven into the words we speak, our communications and how hilariously stunted they are.
People open their mouths and now we can see all of that. Now we have to see the lips and teeth moving and watch as the mania shrieks out in bursts of static.
I speak with the harried waiter. He is young, jittery, impatient. The sun is hot upon our faces as thick globs of water slide down the outside of my glass. All of the candied colors of summer inverted and splotching down onto the pavement. Is this where we run to to get relief from a kind of pain which sizzles underneath everything. Strangers everywhere. Afternoon martinis. Cigar shops. Lingerie boutiques for the rich and sexless. Fancy young women with their small dogs and their meaty boyfriends.
Behind the door into our fraught little delicate lives is a kind of intimidation which lies in wait. False moves and false starts. Tension wires. A bird in a cage on a leash. What you wouldn’t give to make a couple of fine life-shattering mistakes.