Sunday, May 20, 2018


You have all the words. You didn't have them always, but you took them - from my mind, my heart and then sometimes even snatched them away from my mouth as I barely uttered them. How isolated you must be, though you have the words for love and for hurt, for pain, for all the ugliness and for all the beauty. Do you sometimes divide those words into two, just so you could have a conversation? Do you say them to yourself and then think of me saying them ? So now you have the words and also my actions, my breaths, my sighs and my ticks. What have you left me except your overbearing, exploding presence ? Where have I gone in all the places you've grown ? What happened to those parts of me you subsumed ? Am I more real in your mind than in my reality ?

I am angry when I think of all that you churn out about me and for me. I feel reduced to the ignition spark of an automobile which only happened because you inserted the key and turned it - which may be the beginning of the movement but is preceded by your intention to move. So necessary in all its superfluousness - so pointless without you. I break, I rail and I despair of all the meaning which you have but which only my action can enable to attribution.

Yet, despite all the agency, you are alone and unhappy- and I am alone and bemoan our attachment.  What fresh torture will a new day bring - I feel it while you think it and then sketch out my feelings into words and take all the significance and reduce me to paltry smallness.  There are no perspectives, no matter whatever you may decide to birth in that brain of yours. This is our truth and we cannot escape for one would lose self-awareness if the other were to change while the other would stymie without the collusion of the one.