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Endnote
I wish I knew how to categorize this for you: is a note to myself or a story? It has been a long time since I wrote anything, fingertips chattering while I fidget and blink, unsure if I’m doing a thing correctly when I know the idea of correct is a false concept. I know that it is not black and white or shades of grey but a whole violent array of colors, unending variations on shades. Our reasons can not be defined in simple sentences, and how much of what I’m telling you will you miss; how much of what I’m telling you is implied emptiness and shadows? Will you catch the curve of my words that breaks the light? I know my textures are unbecoming. Matter is too hard to put down on paper; like catching an insect that drips out of your hands when you offer it as a unwanted present. I will lay this out for you, without pretending grace or skill. Dragging a stick through red mud, leaving shapes I hope might tell you what I wish to be heard. Listen: I saw her and I was caught, maybe not helpless but something close to it. That was it. We got together, like there was any other choice, and there were months and months of less and more, weights and balances with our fingers sliding over the scales while we whispered how much we would always love each other. We tipped the balance, cheating ourselves and each other with the peculiar counterfeit currency of sincerity that is only ever exchanged between those who feel like they have everything or nothing at all to lose. Our paradoxes’ amalgamation made us feel untouchable together, untouched by each other. The one and the other. See how I struggle not to do the same thing, only a little bit different, only completely not the same over and over? I told her almost everything while telling her practically nothing, the records I kept long faded, and without a script to read from I can tell a pretty story but it won’t be by the book, and I try my best not to lie to the ones I love. I try. Currently, I feel like I’m holding out some dripping piece of guts to you, the audience, this stupid stage of hasty language and I smile because I know I look ridiculous, it’s sick and overdone, but how close we can be and yet so far from whatever it is we were or were not looking for. What was looking for us. ( more )
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