Holding Patterns
Today I'd like to sit in a dark room, watching a shaft of light shift imperceptibly, perhaps in color, shape, or position, while listening to the sparsest of Brian Eno's compositions. Maybe I'd sleep a little on the floor and mark how the light had changed in separate, blurred moments of consciousness. Maybe I'd turn my back for awhile on it and just gaze into the blackness. Mostly I'd like to forget the sound of human voices for awhile, let their faces fade on memory's unreliable retina.
Instead today will be full of faces, and voices, and light. Strained, conscious efforts will be made to pull the corners of my mouth just past a grimace. I'll tell pretty lies and ask questions and ignore the answers. No one will know but I'll hate myself for it anyway. Is this how it will be until death? Keeping people at arms length until by the time I need them, they're out of reach? This plot does not have a happy ending. This story needs an editor because the author has imprisoned himself writing the same sentence.
Instead today will be full of faces, and voices, and light. Strained, conscious efforts will be made to pull the corners of my mouth just past a grimace. I'll tell pretty lies and ask questions and ignore the answers. No one will know but I'll hate myself for it anyway. Is this how it will be until death? Keeping people at arms length until by the time I need them, they're out of reach? This plot does not have a happy ending. This story needs an editor because the author has imprisoned himself writing the same sentence.