But please do not claim sleep for your prize. Please.
which meant that a hundred or so people got to stare at my haggard face for two hours, all but naked save red lipstick i found under my driver’s seat, from the audience of the school’s winter choral concert.
i should be unhappier, either over such complete and inescapable exposure or the money (and the time, of which i have even less) i will spend replacing the more necessary of the absent items. and on some level, maybe i am. but mostly i feel deadened. unsurprised or unsurprisable by another iteration of things going badly, of experiences scribbled into planes more difficult to traverse than they should be. submissive, but with no noble sentiment (abandonment of shallow aesthetic or material needs, say) playing consolation prize.
silence. darkness. sentient non-being. of course I wouldn’t want to remain there, which, in defiance of its intrinsic permanence, defeats its very purpose. but, in the absence of light-and-sound-based stimuli that embrace rather than bombard or alienate, Void begins to tempt.i have become unfortunately-fluent in the language of asking (demanding) the impossible of myself, but still being hurt by the eventual (or immediate) failure that follows. see: attempts to achieve restfulness, depriving perceived failings of their sting, loving my body during and despite prolonged periods of stasis…any number of attempted self-ameliorative endeavors. even writing, lately. especially that.
Exile is more than a geographical concept. You can be an exile in your homeland, in your own house, in a room.
How I wish I had more to offer them than just this: I saw you. (I continue to see you even now.)
But, even so, I know few higher echelons of honesty. They were beautiful, of course. They were fleeting—of course.
True sight a rarity more precious by far. farther than far.
i do not, strictly speaking, even need to sing. which leads probability to hunch that i will not. (it’s right, but it doesn’t matter, because no one could bet on it for currency anyway)
i get to meet one of my best friends at the airport tonight. i get to help him bring Christmas into his home, and—i hope—bring him back some of the warmth and light he has been gifting to hundreds of people these past weeks. this much, i can do.
the days have been taking with hands adamant and ice-reddened, grabbing as if i, if anything in me, might bolster their backs against December’s curs—even the bite of their breath as they leer, panting frost. but i, too, shiver. beneath scraps overlooked by a year that never could seem to stay warm.
Beneath the incessant parade of images, nothing.
I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I am the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease.