O Fortuna, I am cast down. I have nothing but my dearest Philosophia to keep my heart going tick, tick, tick. Me and the rumble of the Arkansas Heat. Together, we’re trying to tap our toes until they get the repairman out on this ferris wheel. I want to see the sun again.
In metaphor, good metaphor, you always find a little bit of truth. We say a lot of bullshit, but we wouldn’t say it if we didn’t want you to hear all the little words beneath it. These are the first words we learned. With no extraneous syllables to muddle it up. Me. You. Love. Hurt. Loss. Stop.
I feel like I’m slowly being skinned, so slow I can bear the pain. But oh, now that the winter comes…my heart’s going to have to tick double time just to keep the heat on. I’ll have to buy a thicker coat.
It’s a doozy lately. The one-two punch, bad in the heart and bad in the head. I’m hanging on somehow, via methods I don’t entirely approve of. I don’t know how long this stage can last. I don’t know what I’m reaching out towards. I shake lately. I’m shook. There’s a little quickly cooling tear running down my face. My feet are cold. Poor circulation. No coats. No boots. Just fresh skin and the air of February. I am the color of a ghost. I have one’s temperature. One’s heart.
I want you to write me. I want you to write me. I want to write me.
Yes, you.
Don’t mistake yourself for someone else. I want to go under the water. I feel like I understand punishment. Not this open expanse. Bigger the world, tighter the coffin. It would be easier to just be afraid. Then you wouldn’t have the anger of not taking defensive measures you know exist. I just keep thinking that if I could let go, give into these black dogs, at least that would be a happenstance of note. It would be a white flag. I could stand outside and you could google map it, waving like a thousand sheets in an autumn wind.
I feel like I’m not letting myself hear anything but the white noise. I feel bad. And deeply fucked. And void. And yet massively egotistical. And I want to just be emptied out of everything, start over. I would have been kinder. Or braver. Still, we have an early morning, Philosophia and I. We’ll just keep waking up. I don’t have a better plan right now than that.
