always
saying good-bye.
--Rilke
Under the influence of the spinning clock, the relativity of time, in those last minutes of what you have up until just now called a life, your life without really grasping the meaning of the word. In these empty pages of a diary that won't be written, you have quietly listened in rapt attention. And before I could decode any of it, you learned the lesson that life never meant for you to forget. What was it? I will leave you the space you need for your head to unravel that.
You will, perhaps understand when it forgives you that simple instinct that has always been there at your core. Your will to survival has been sublimated by your will to autonomy. In me that being is weak, overwhelmed by fears, by illusions, by the glaucoma of wanting, the distortions of who you might be, if only, if only... I refuse to call you by your name. I find it impossible to tell you who I am. You haven't asked me, but if you do I have written an essay, a poem, a film treatment. I would tell you everything.
If you cared to ask.
But this mess is my own. I can't persuade myself the words have meaning. There is a jagged edge of these familiar sins the words might capture. I cut myself. I am disfigured by this love. Again. I lay shattered, blue-green-reflective, in pieces at our feet. Broken glass, nails, fire: where would you not walk to know me. Curiosity is a meager substitute for love.
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