what if there was a thing like a novel but not, that somewhere in something like a chapter that might be number twenty eight (with two of the intervening numbers taken up by the thing of things like poems because they feed off the same database & use a very similar codebase) had something like this in it:
progress. the music still seizes me clenches me into a ball of wire through which the unpleasant current of the present passes.
aside from that i am beginning to see beyond this, a glimmer of a future like a barren landscape stretching to the end of the continent and fading into waves of green and grey, lit with the hectic light of a gathering storm; in other words, a future i can picture myself living in, an acceptable outcome of all of this, not the future i would have preferred but not one i will … reject.
& what if it started out like …
like this …
on with it then. fiction? i assure you this is pure fiction, and also all true. or real, i get the two confused.
there are two, maybe three levels of thoughts and processes unfolding inside me as i type this, perfect pure things which, i assure you, are as worthy of my attention as the mess on this table or the sweat trickling down the back of my leg. in the space between me and these words, the air has weight and texture and somewhere in the intersection of all these facts i am living an entirely unrelated life and then some. the tapping keys? there’s your fiction, for in fact these fingers are right this instant curling in the thick damp hair at the base of his neck, tightening in the ecstasy of the smell and the taste of him and there has never really been anyone else, not like this.
is it real? reality is all electrochemical processes in the synapses, so yes. although most of my own reality is probably mine and mine only, i imagine. and i imagine constantly, and consider it vital to my survival. without it, none of the tangible measurable definite absolute verifiable actual shit out there would matter. i inhabit my own mind primarily and the world as necessary, and sparingly, never all of me. always part of me is wandering in the mind; i would say this keeps me sane however technically it makes me quite the opposite. delusional, anti-social, disassociative, handful of extra personalities, little nihilism thrown in for good measure… hell, i’m half the DSM4 on any given day, and i’m here to tell you, the illness is not the issue here – it’s the presentation. it’s in the way that you use it, it comes and it goes. it’s about style and proper form and a firm, solid stroke. it’s the spin and the way you use the wind. it’s in the wrist, mostly.
there is no fiction here in this malleable reality, even though at this point my life is more imaginary than anything else, serious intense fantasies involving all the regular senses and then some, and me with this sense of urgency, doing everything i can possibly, as if my life were at stake.
because my life is at stake. and this has given me metaphysical energy, absolutely, and it is my first time. this energy may contain the potential to change things tangibly; it is perhaps possible that i can write this real, physical real, if i love the words perfect and pure. it is also possible that these words are all i’ll create, in other words, this would be the answer to all these pleas, by which i mean, no. i want to say i will be fine no matter what happens, however i would be lying. there has never been anyone else, not like this. and yes i am ridiculously in love, i wish it was a reasonable feeling, however there has never … you know.
fuck. who wants undying love anyway? anyone? how about if i tell you about this guy i knew, had the undying love for his wife, who died of cancer in his arms. he kept her voice on his answering machine a good year afterwards, only erased it when he started dating her namesake, the first of several namesakes. sometimes, love should die.
anyone still wanting the undying love? i’m going to have to ask you to leave. go on now, be creepy reading someone else’s book, ok?
and with this my throat closes up and my face twists into the other side of the story, very nearly crying. trying, just failing. it comes and it goes, and when it’s gone i am alone in my skin and skin can starve you know; mine is weak. three years. and it is real. physical. right now i feel wrapped in steel wool.
and this, right here, is the self pity. the word pathetic may have been unsaid somewhere; no more.
i do have stories to tell. i whisper this promise to myself, i will tell them transcendent. hopefully this is just loud enough for you to hear it too; this voice (my voice?), it is so tentative and unsteady. new maybe.
what if this thing was written in an entirely bloggy style because the girl who wrote it did stuff best bloggystyle?
would it matter?