Bedtime. Made myself a tea, now sitting down to hopefully quiet any remaining voices of uncertainty. How does writing do that, you ask? It doesn't. It raises anxieties to eye level and then, with a thrust, gives them the flight of pigeons. It is in part why I play musical instruments. The activity provides some temporary relief. It occupies a part of the mind and keeps another part busy. Why does wasting time assuage the feeling that I have wasted too much time? Who knows, but it does. The lesson of time can be had again and again.
I know the answer to the question - don't worry - I know that it is not time wasted. Life is not money. It can not be saved, beyond unlucky and faithless memory. It can not be bequeathed.
Don't worry. I plan on being dead for a very long time.
Don't worry. I plan on being dead for a very long time.
I've loved her for twenty years now, off and on. Nearly half of that time we have had a child. It all seems so impossible were it not for the amassing of personal and public fact. Everything does, after a while, seem so unreal. Of my own life I have forgotten much, constructed some from what was left. It takes a great breaking of the heart for most of it to come back to me now, always desperately, in shards and tatters. I remember the laughing well, but not at what.
This is not glumness - I promise. I am smiling as I sit here, contented to be alone in a quiet, dark room contemplating the utter strangeness of self, the last best trick of consciousness.
This is not glumness - I promise. I am smiling as I sit here, contented to be alone in a quiet, dark room contemplating the utter strangeness of self, the last best trick of consciousness.
One day we'll disappear
Together in a dream
However short or long
Our lives are going to be
I will live in you
Or you will live in me
Until we disappear
Together in a dream
.
