I’ve not written like this in a long time.
All tapped out words on the keyboard, pretending I know what I’m doing when I’m winging it, always.
The words are there, always at the touch of my fingers they rattle rhythmic and make for a pretty background, sounds like I’m working. I’m working, right? Doing useful work even when I’m just pushing buttons in the hope they’ll make words. Working even when I’ve no direction to go in but into the words, the individual key strikes on the keyboard like staccato promises.
I’m a favourite to flunk everything today, like a maths problem made up in a hurry and unchecked, scrawled on the board by a desperate teacher bare minutes before the class walks in. Only to be solved and the flaws mocked by the class clown before the rest of them have even got their books out.
One hundred and forty-eight words strung together like lanterns along a pathway. Can I find the way by their glow? Can I move from one slab of cold granite to the next, feet bare on the path, toes gleaming with shiny polish and drops of dew. I’m making sense of the moments by making nothing of them. Nothing. It is just a way of pulling the seconds along behind me. It is just a story of all the things I didn’t say before. The mumblings that humble and the depictions of make-believe retaliations. Do you have any idea what those are?
Is there a heaven for the dead things to rest in? or are we just making symptoms out of scenarios? Are we carving our own reflections in the mud and calling them demons? Are we making up for the time we spent staring at the colours in the sky and describing our own souls to each other?
I want to do that more than I want to do this. To become again a person whose ideas are more interesting than their execution, to simply live the fragments, not trying always to put them together, but making them dance because they are rhythm, making them sing because they are song.