Did you know?
I’ve been hiding for about three months now. It is difficult to remember that if you choose to enter the stasis box, the word will have changed when you come out. When I went in, I knew. In my mind, that is. It is a bit of a shock to see that.
My world has vanished in quiet flames. Perhaps I have my family – my rock, without whom I would be nothing. I have certainly irreparably damaged my connections to people. I don’t understand why withdrawal hurts but I told it does. I am sorry in the same way that I knew that everything would change when I disappeared. When I come all the way out, I will feel sorry the same way I now feel shock – in the heart. As for the rest of it – well, I never really wanted it anyway. If I had, I would have fought for it. Wouldn’t I?
I remember a glorious time, beautiful, painstakingly wrought. It was not complete, but the foundations were laid and I knew where I was going with it. The story had begun. Then I lost it. After an appropriate period of mourning, I spent forever imagining it and telling everyone who would listen of its beauty. And it grew in the telling, until even in my mind, the pearls were turned to diamonds, the rough edges were smoothed away. Where there was age, I saw comfort. Where there were cracks, I saw character. Everywhere the work of the hammer was softened by memory to the delicate work of a GrandMaster’s chisel.
Today I pulled out that book. Flipped through the pages. Read some of those words that I thought were … just beyond description. And the pages crumbled beneath my fingers, and even my memory turned to dust. The words that remained were painstakingly put together, true. The attempt to be mysterious made them merely opaque. And none of it had the magic I wove into the memory of my beloved.
I found an old “manuscript” today. Needless to say, it makes my dead writing look good.
Much that once was, no longer is. My mind cannot wrap itself around all that I have lost, or perhaps willfully set aside. Most people grow. I seem to have devolved.
Maybe that is just as well. Perhaps it’s easier to fix the flaws on a lower model.
Maybe it’s sour grapes.
I just miss the edgy, vivid ALIVE feeling that used to accompany writing.
What should one do when life
slips out through crevices and cracks
1 didn’t know existed?
when there flickers a flame
that as long as it does, burns true?
and within, burns clean through?
when the rock breaks and the
cookie crumbles? : contemplate life —
— cherry blossoms falling?