dualité une: doute

a tale in two acts: une & deux.  be sure to read both

doute

I sit here, the fourth and final day of your absence, listening to Jack Johnson.  I have not yet showered, and the day is waning.  All that i had hoped for these days has not come to pass.  Where I thought I would find comfort in my solitude, I have found emptiness.  I wonder why that has happened, given how infrequently you appear here anyway.  It must be this knowledge that soon, there will be no homecoming.  I’ll sit there on the couch, or at my desk.  There will be no frenetic panic to complete anything I wanted to do before you come home.  Instead, it will be only me.

I wonder, about all of these things Ive always said I would be without her, and if they would really come to pass.  Will I really sweep the dust from my blank canvas and once again weild my chungking bristles?  Will I really be a kinder person, and once again live by my own (superior) moral compass?  Will my children really be happier?

I’ve always envisioned this rebirth.  This renaissance of spirit and inspiration, once quelled by her constant voice.  Brought back to life.  Vibrance unkown.  Possibility.  Now that I am so close, I doubt.  I think back to the first year we were together, back before it all got tarnished and corroded by your fickle emotions.  Ridiculous memories of sharing a floor, and my inability to light the grill.  Why are these visions suddenly so poignant?

Will you really be sorry?  When you come back, will I really stand up and shutter the windows and walk away?

*sigh* I havent spoken to you.  I cant.