The night that creeps in is wet and chilled. The weight of it is like resin or gooey snot seeping, sludging and glopping in. The smells of the coming winter.
Do you ever feel not alone in bed at night even though you are? When the cold comes in, and it surrounds, do you feel the echo? I do. I remember, and sometimes that’s a nail in my chest, and other times it still warms me. Perception can be momentary, circumstantial.
Now, there is only a space for understanding. A process where comprehension takes a back seat and settles for not knowing where the car is going. Think too hard and the tunnel develops a slope downward. For me, I often find myself contextualizing and interpreting: wrongly, optimistically, starkly…
Logic’s devices are stunted with emotion’s geyser-like eruptions. That’s the place where the echo comes from, I feel. The indelible imprint of a soul touched, the intoxication, idiosyncrasies, passions that once flared but are long silent, and have been. Something that I have know is there, and will clearly linger for the rest of my life. What to do with all the images? Cherish, I say.
We have so little time to be alive. Only a blip. A tiny fragment of a fragment. I’ve been guilty of abusing that gift… squandering it; laying waste to it on occasion. The fact that I still have it despite myself is a thing that can’t be ignored.
But here, now… this fragile place where the remembrance is strong… she remains with me. In some delusion where peace had pervaded, the outcome was different… the story continued, but changed to survive. Again and again we see that those who are suited to adapt, endure the cycles of changing chance and circumstance. Such is the case in our lives, however brief they are.
Why? I won’t deny I missed her. She was right there with me again. It hurt to wake up. I was bleeding. I won’t forget. I dreamed for a reason; and will never deny that.
Sometimes the best thing to do is dream, for it is there where I will see her again, in a place where no new harm can be incurred.