2004-12-11
Tug of war for blame. Tug of war for wretchedness. Tug of war for harm.

There...there's something I need to tell you, dear. Let me write it down. It's dreadfully important. It hasn't left my mind all day and I finally put it to words.

But...but I'm losing the words. A heavy sleep clouds my mind. I'm wounding you. You're leaving me with a great reluctance. No... no come back! I'd rather look in your eyes than at your back. Return! Return! I'm perishing, abandoned on the moor!

No. No those are only the delusions of dreams. Those were stories and rough fears. Understanding clears as reason explains things tenderly. Those were half visions of falling sleep. I was going to write you a note and seal it with my lips and send it as a photograph. If I'd just stir my body out from under this heavy weight. If I could only move my limbs from the frozen repose, I would grab my pencil and paper and scribble down these signficant words.

But I can't move. And the words are jumbling. "So therefore by this place..." That isn't even near right. No. "We should stop thinking about each other..." No no! Those are your words! Do not feed them to me! I can't! Renounce your childish studies and come back. Don't leave me. I'm thin as tracing paper and you see straight through my pretty paintings but I can transfer. I can grow more substantial. Where are you going? Where are you going?

No! Beginning to dream again! Dreaming hastily! Always dreaming so feverishly. Tears in every moment of sleep. I must awaken. Arise. But this time. Why am I trying to awaken? What was it? Important... paper... pencil...no I'd rather sleep. Sleep is better. I'll remember it in the morning. I'll write it down then. I'll write later.

You're not hurting me, I'm hurting you... why are we hurting each other?

What...what...

Sleep.

And with it ominous dreams.

And forgetfulness. The morning brings a reminder of distress. Distress which set in after last night's hole in the wall ponderings. Truth still yes, but my thoughts shift like a kaleidoscope. The patterns cycle and repeat themselves.

A sliver of exactly what words I was so intent upon scribbling returned to me in the afternoon. Lingering in my notebook is a very short disjointed, rough sentence trying to echo last night's sentiment. It languishes next to an abstract portrait of a heartless woman with checkerboard print hair. But the words have so missed the mark of what I wanted them to be, that I dare not post the cruel mockery.

Perhaps I am too afraid to.

Fear always.

I am the harbinger of darkness. I am the damper on my spirits. I will not dwell as such for long. I cannot stand the mire of selfpity and will arise out of this soon enough. But I must have the blame.

before & & after