I’ve been closer to my dark green notebook, finding rare nights of incoherent epiphanies(or so I think) reverberating along the gaps, severing the often messy layers of gray matter. That everything is a stranger, simpler version of the prosaic— love, desires, deciduous truths, attachments of all sorts, detachments of all of the above. The universe can be described in a word, or words found in dusty archives, and it remains that I am that vexatious blink of a cursor, the spaces that follow are spaces for my narrative, confined, controlled, magic.
Only by the erroneous perception of time and the imminence of a kind of death, we allow these words to hide among its many selves, we forcefully imbue importance on the things we fail to question, but rightly so, because questions are merely slippages of speech and thought where they escape our steady senses of totality. The act of waking up can be strange, you toss and turn, absurd measures to ignore these unfinished conversations, piled on your bedside table. But you see the book with its page dog eared, where she had left off from last night— readjusting, where the curvature of the earth are her arms made to fit yours. The almost inaudible breath, the lifetime of a star gone astray in this new day, the one with her name on it.