The fresh laughter behind the cloud. Like a sea which is mourning, this week there are too many people offering me binoculars. The monsoon is finally here, the roads are flooded with water. Soft fingers in mine, experimenting with time, can we ever let the curtain rise? Those memories are blocked. Remembering has set them in the mould of a story. Stories have actors and plots and characters. Characters can only be vaguely related to you, share a street address. They can never share the fragility of reality.
So then these stories have become my only connection to you. And you refuse to re-connect.
Is soulful seeking the only way? Why am I obsessed with history? There is so much more. We need to value something which is not. To feel incomplete, to dream that tomorrow might be strange, irregular, surprising. But nothing is surprising.
Each moment has its own theory. Each theory its own rationale. Its own gunshot. Point Black.
"Each day, remember what you have given." I gave away my isolation today. I gave away my need to be angry. I, sit alone, obese and hungerless feeling more comfortable than I should, oblivious to my workload.
I will be writing articles for an American law website. Good fun, might be good money.
Between paying bills and flushing the toilet, I drive cautiously in the rain, trying to avoid all ditches, all rough-spots.
When people seem to be so kind, I allow myself to be a child - playing with my hair as if they were strands of wool, idle and warm.