This restlessness eats all the way to my fingertips. Because of the anxiousness I can’t seem to figure out what to do with the feeling so I pull out the laptop and start typing without a single thing to say. There is a layer of something so deep and murky under the skin I feel as though a dark and unforgiving ocean walks the earth inside of me. Childhood memories of crisp fall evenings walking the concrete sidewalks of my old neighborhood. Before there were cell phones, before there was so much fear in everything I touched. The thin tension in the air between my small body and the only slightly larger body of the boy I wanted to kiss but never did. His curly hair and my bright blue eyes. Days of knee socks and growing into an awkward quiet creature. The years have gone by and some have been kind but some have been crueler than I can bear to recall. Regret, panic, destruction. Red lipstick and dimly lit bars and strangers who turn you on. A hungry girl grows into a reckless woman, but you like that and so do they so you mistake desperation for power. You live a life that becomes only a memory but also continues to loop inside, turns the stomach, clutches at your breast at night. How much time. What have I done with any of it. What do I have left to do but write, but write, but what. For who. Why? And as the black morning sky peels itself open like a weary eyelid from the ending of the night, you think you know. Because the soul needs something to worship. Hungry girl. You need an obsession that will tear you open. Something to rail against and submit to. You need devotion in your life to stay alive.
Looking into your eyes as you hold my gaze I feel weak but also some kind of holy, which is a rare feeling for me, especially these days. There is a strength between us no one else can see but we know it because we can feel it coursing through our worn out veins, a sudden injection of life where once there was only numbness. This is the way we take flight without moving a muscle, this is how we pray without making a single sound. Everything you are is hunger I somehow think will satisfy my own. To lust is to feed at the mouth of emptiness, a futile beg to be filled. It is hopeless, it is its own reward and punishment. It is ten minutes to six in the morning and all is dark outside and in. My stomach is sick and I’m nervous as fuck for reasons I cannot name. Perhaps it’s the dreams about something so beautiful that refuses to exist in this harsh reality of a life lived mostly to fulfill other people’s fantasies. High heels and tight lips. A scream and a promise and a mistake. Fear turns into a game. Who wears it best, who hides it best. Where does the hurt go, what about the pain, where does the aching go if I turn my face away. Secrets and the way my eyes have hollowed out almost completely over the years. When did it all fall apart or was it never really pulled together. How is it that there comes a time when you actually believe that without a mirror there is nothing left to see.
Just outside my window the neighbors are fighting in their driveway about something I can’t quite discern. She is speaking in a tone somewhere between mildly annoyed and thoroughly pissed off as he is talking so loudly over her that neither one can hear anything the other is going on about. I am too worn out from a long day at the office to listen to one more useless word of drivel. I pull the window down tight reluctantly because I usually like the smooth evening air sifting in as I write my thoughts into the abyss, the soothing sounds of crickets and low hush of the traffic moving steady along the highway. These moments are so rare for me though I try everything I can to expand the time I have to myself. You steal pockets of time, that is the only way. Steal irreverently from a world which expects you to give everything away endlessly for nothing. As the clouds move in and rain begins to splatter against the windowpane, the substance of this life feels very far away from me. If all we ever truly are is alone, what do people hold onto? How many of us sit quietly in small rooms afraid of our own minds, terrified of what it truly means to love someone else when we don’t even know how to love ourselves. When the words don’t come it is hard for me to think, it is hard for me to feel connected to anything when the words fail me. You cannot foresee the dry spells either, you can write like a motherfucker for weeks at a time and then suddenly not one decent (or even indecent) thing occurs to you to say. The more clever ones, they just walk away- do something else with their stolen slivers of time, something that makes common sense to common people. Not me. I sit until my stomach cramps and my head pounds. I come back to the blank page over and over like an insatiable lover. It drives me absolutely mad when the words don’t show. But for some ridiculous reason, after thirty odd years of this aching melancholic obsession, I always do.
He lights my cigarette as we duck underneath an overhang on the front patio, as the rain overflows the gutters along the roof line and slams into the concrete in torrents. It’s a Friday night and the summer sun has been oppressive all day. The rush of the rain feels heavenly, the now cooling earth smells of the faint sweetness of musty dissipating heat. As I take the first drag and let the smoke fill my tender lungs, I’m speaking obsessively about the ways in which the world will end. How it’s already been stripped of so much of its dignity that whatever tragedies happen almost feel well deserved. Why are we are so good at destroying ourselves. Each other. We stand by. It’s not the things we say it’s the things we don’t say. Out loud. It’s what we swallow hoping it will stay deep down inside where it can never hurt anyone but ourselves, as if we were gods, saviors. Humans once or twice removed. We watch the cars driving by slowly on the street next to the house, the glow of their headlights reflecting jagged lines into the wet darkness. Searching. You agree with all the things I say but you don’t see the point in my saying them. I can’t help it, these thoughts have no where else to go. I need to get them out of me. I guess I’m just trying to reach my hands out into the blackness of a terrible nightmare and fumble for something to grab onto, something to stop my head from spinning in this deathly spiral of dread. Something to steady me and make me feel like I’m not alone and even if it’s not all just a bad dream, it’ll be okay. We will be okay. If you are lost, you don’t have to be able to see all the way home. You just have to be able to see a few feet in front of you, one step at a time, and you’ll get there.
This quiet is enough to split my mind into a thousand tiny shards of panic, come sit with me. Tell me, if you were someone else, and I were someone else, and somehow we freed ourselves of this disaster of a life where the truth is a game and everybody plays along but no one ever wins, would you go back to being who you were as a younger version of yourself? Try to do it differently? Or would you be yourself, now, only less fraught, less distracted, less afraid of what they think of you. If no one else were around, would you touch me and know I was really here with you, trying to help you see the beauty of your eyes as they look into mine with the heave of a swollen ocean, wide open, trapped inside a dilapidated warehouse. Shattered glass windows lining the floors of your aching soul. Aren’t you tired? No, I mean, tired of it all? The days circling decayed meat like buzzards as the pale sky stretches its empty arms out for endless miles over the dull barren landscape. As for me, I find my situation hard to put into words, which is strange as I usually think of myself as being somewhat good with words. But the funny thing is the closer you get to the heart of the thing the more deftly it eludes you. To be a writer- at least the kind I seem to be, there are infinite kinds- it’s sort of like a chase. There’s a cat and there’s a mouse and you’re both. I want to capture and kill as much as I want to run like hell and then hide behind the wall. Does that make any sense at all? To you? Are there things you chase even if only in your mind? Dreams you have about once again being your own, taking what you want and spitting out the rest. The world be damned, you answer only to yourself. Place your hands in my hands, feel the pulse in my wrist. Because this is it, beautiful. There’s no way out and no way back and you and I both know we are so very, very far from home. Heartbeat to heartbeat, body to body, a tear for a tear for every kiss you shouldn’t suck slowly out of me. But as the shadows slide down over the mad sweet sweat of another blistering day, you just can’t help yourself. The soft taste of you is damaged, familiar, poetic. You see, I know the trouble with those who’ve a way with words. We chase the things that we should run from.