the weak in a week;
An epistolary piece of writing to a friend. I didn’t necessarily
want to post this, but considering I can’t separate the scrap
from the shinola of my current writing, I figured I might as well.
I’ve been getting a bit closer to figuring out what I’ve been wanting, or I guess trying to tell you
lately. Or perhaps how to word it, since recently I’ve been started on writing something just for it
to devolve into some muddled mass of words and anti-meaning, bound to become a part of a
collection of writing par-baked and filed away, and entitled nothing in particular like, “from that
point in time when all of the world felt like two shades of a Mark Rothko painting.”
Regardless, I’ve been writing.
About things. About no things.
About somethings like paraffin wax and Betelgeuse, which believe it, in a hundred thousand
years or so will die brightly and violently, visible in the sky afterwards for days and months as
bright as the half-moon.
I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing here.
I feel… stranded; standing thin, far behind the tree line while the world and all of its inhabitants
are running by on hard, solid ground. Or at least have decent footing. They all think different
than me, I’m sure of it.
I think something that I’ve wanted to mention lately is that I’m really feeling the weight of what
I’ve been holding back from everyone, and from you, as I’m sure you’ve noticed in how
dissimilar it’s been in the way we share information or just generally discuss how we’re feeling.
Why can’t I tell you how it’s felt to experience nothing in this week? I mean, you’re the only
person I’d shout the void to. There’s a black hole I haven’t been giving credit to and it’s
been devouring all of the light. Maybe it’s been like that for longer than I give any credit to
remembering.
I recall we talked about something like this briefly, the lasting joke from you being that it was
probably for the best that I didn’t leave any dirt for you to remember forever and use against me;
if necessary, when necessary. That’s something that’s funny and interesting—imagining you
picking people apart using their own history like a howitzer. I mean, words are no less than
metaphysical weapons that may be used to beat down and bury the human spirit, if necessary,
when necessary. Are they not? You seem to be carrying cudgels for quite a few people.
They’re locked away or strewn around.
Your secrets are safe with me.
I know I can always share what I’m thinking, but I’ve started to believe there’s some disconnect
in how I’m experiencing things versus how I’m meant to describe them. That competes
disparagingly with “have I felt or experienced anything at all worth noting lately?” Or “have I felt
or experienced anything worth noting at all..?”
If you can understand, I just feel… bottled, or something, or in a way, you know? I have things
that are new and outpacing me, and I should at least give an aside to them in our conversations,
but I’d always just rather not. Rather they ferment and bubble and build off the back of my
primary and secondary thoughts and memories of funerals, work days, and rough landscaping.
They are more in some ways and they are less in some ways. I could use decompression, advice,
or wisdom, and these words just keep coming back to me like I should write them down or
something—pale familiar. Everything’s made me feel so bogged down. I was so much more to
you and everyone else nine months ago.
I reckon it must be because I do feel like a bit of a stranger lately. Is that just me? Do I seem
loose when I’m amongst all of the company? Do I play the part of loose well? I know how to
speak, and certainly could afford to share more without being so critically aware of myself.
It’s a completely one-sided engagement and I’m certain we’d both think it’s silly.
I feel like I’m growing too big for this shell and should seek to find a new one.
K
P.S.—Figuring out what to do with this bit of poetry. Maybe, like I hope for me, it’s a part of a
bigger thing. It feels Larkin-esque for some reason. I see myself somewhere in it or around it:
cab or coach?
Wheels moving slowly back
awaiting other grooves to sort out
and pull from sleep
the lessons of less understood track.
P.P.S.—You’re there, too: —Choo Choo!