Thu, 19 May 2005

takebacks
She never spoke, and so forgot her name. She remembered the last few years the way you might remember a movie you watched some December Sunday afternoon, sick with the flu, fading in and out of sleep, so that when you saw it again years later you had the strange feeling you’ve seen it before, but you don’t remember any of the details. People call her, sometimes, and she has nothing to say, as nothing has happened, as teh only changes within her are deep and dark and hidden to her. She knows putting words to the truth would make any listener sick with sadness and impotence, but she knows all this silence is starving the people who love her, and she does now know what to say, what to do.

I told her that I was going to spend the rest of my life alone. This is something everyone says from time to time, on ugly and empty days, but I hoped that my condition lent those words a little extra heft. She agreed, in a distant way, then said that it was beside the point, as the want and longing would haunt me for every day left of my life, so that not even the promise of crippled peace would satisfy; being alone would gain me nothing. I knew this, but did not want to admit to it, the way I still tell myself stories of how I could still be a genius or a scholar, despite early sleepless whispers all around my bed which make clear the lie inside those dreams. I told her maybe I was misguided, then, and could find someone to pay witness, to giggle and scheme, but she told me it was beside the point; having a body next to you does not make you any less alone. Your heart is a nest for ghosts, she said, and I don’t see any evidence that anything will every be otherwise.

I told her I was going to stop writing, and she told me I had finally come to the logical conclusion that my own mysteries and fables were mine, and by peddling every half-idea I was buying into the great lie. “It makes you paperthin, makes your character follow the straightest of roads, this sharing of everything. Every dream on the website, every idea via email, every piece of yourself given away before it can take root, grow into you. Keep yourself secret. Share only with the people you love. Like me.” “You think so?” “You have to decide if you are going to spend the rest of your life playing puppets with an anonymous mob, or if you are going to grant the things you build the value they deserve.” “But I’ll still be alone, like you said.” “You’re wanting for what you will never have, this idea of the ideal companion, and as long as you want for that you will be alone, yes. But you’ll learn, finally, that there are things more nourishing than that, and you will sleep soundly, and you will feel good in your skin, and you will no longer beg the world to remember you.” “Is that what you’ve done?” I listened to her be quiet for a long time, until she said “I don’t know what I’ve done. I probably shouldn’t say anything. No. I’m not gonna say anything.” “Okay, so.” “I should go, I should go”, and she went, and I didn’t hear from her again for a year. Which didn’t matter, as that was another year where nothing changed. She was still keeping herself hidden, and I was still giving myself away.
(12:26.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #