Reciting prayers out loud.
Right now, in this moment, everything is so still. Just the tapping of the clock, its second hand which keeps time in rhythym as if reminding me to breath. It's after 1 a.m. And I weep.
My emotions-- which were once so elusive to me.... I see how they overpower. Only I don't see this as any sort of distortion. I really don't. I really think that emotions are the true indicator. The true gauge, if you will.... and tonight I cry as I talk to John. I find that my true center comes into some kind of magnified precision. Sometimes I have found.... you know, it's only lately.... really. Truly. I think he is my diary. He has followed my pages. He knows the marks. The points of reference. And I don't really think it's because we have that history between us. I think that history between us happened because of this ability to step in and out of each other's state of consciousness and be both objective and subjective to each other. And it could be why it was so fucking intense when we were living together in our twenties. We were such novices. We had no idea what we were doing. If you say, oh, someone is my twin, you think sometimes of your perfect equal. But then I have my Agamemnon who was another kind, more the esoteric, and less the total twin; the poignant cruel teacher.
That is your soul's lesson....
it could be that I have more than doubles. More than twins. Quadruplets. Maybe one other half. And each one is necessary to the whole. The balance and the yin and yang. Only, I think, there is only one true North. Only one true circuit that completes; where the puzzle that is perfectly fit into some clear picture can only be understood by this fit because the energy is like a live wire that it is impossible to shrug off as ordinary.
They say that only when you surrender can you let in true knowledge. I think I have let myself be stretched across the highway, fearless of the semis. It is not a leap, but a surrender. And I.... give up.
And so I cried. As I spoke because I knew it was the truth. He asked me what was buried. What was my secret. What was it that my soul really and truly craved. And it's only to him that I could confess this. And I told him that is was …. it is.... not a want but a need. An absolute need. An imperative that always forces me to not be able to go on in falseness. To choose my solitude over a kind of settling because.... you see.... because.... I would rather be deplete than live in dull numbness that hides a lying substitute for that promise of my truest reflection. So it's not a choice. Because, even if I choose, you know, I've tried to.... To be willing to take what is only possible to grasp in my life as the only possibility; as they say, "to settle...." But it's not possible ....to really walk that path without being faced with the knowledge that to continue down that way, down that road.... is only to choose to relinquish the finest and most precise meaning the soul is reaching for. It's such a waste of time. It is better to suffer the empty road; be alone. So John said to me, he said: “I know what you really want....” and …. he got me right on.... And I swear I got chills. You see, because.... he was paying attention all those years ago, those hours we spent talking. I guess he was always really listening. I guess I didn't know he was..... He heard me. Because he said, “you want 'Henry and June'....”
Fuck. Fuck. And he didn't mean the melo drama. He didn't mean that. Because I said as I was crying “but they didn't end up together.” and he said something like, 'in your version they do.' And I cried even more-- for being this pathetic idiot; doomed romantic-- who couldn't help it. Because he is right. He gets it. He gets me. When no one else ever bothered to pay attention. But he is also saying that he is not my Henry. He is not my Henry. He is telling me, he is not my Henry. And I think that I have met my Henry. So what is a person to do when they realize …. when they realize that the beauty of the bittersweet is not as beautiful as you once dreamed it was because it is not beautiful to feel so empty. To come so near. Like trying to thread a needle in a fog. To almost get it. "So glad we almost made it...." The perfect golden tapestry. Elusive, it evaporates by daylight when you wake from the dream. And this dream...? how is it that it can hurt so much if it wasn't ever real? The only answer is that I am absolutely out of my mind. And very stupid. So that is it. The truth is that what is real to me is ….just a kind of misty dream; a beautiful lie; an adeptly stitched silken masterpiece, shrunk fit to cling to my heart and soul. It was. It is. It was. Entwined. Choking the Rose de Mai.
Yes, so what? I go on. Like a harlot nun. Like some Elan or lady of Shalott and it really doesn't matter for it won't matter.... because to survive and to continue is the choice of the hybridized species that won't accept defeat. Just--instead it's forced to just exist. A raft taking a vessel to some final rest. Because it is not by choice. Defeat...? no, because it takes courage to take the risk, to face the highest stakes.... Sadly, only to find that the challenger has forfeited.... It is not a choice to…. drift empty to the shore and accept the burn from rays of the sun as it scorches whatever is left within to be consumed into this blazing star. At least there is consolation in the honesty; to burn from a passion that was real and you played true to instead of cowarring down path, lost, without a moral compass.
It would be so easy. This kind of rage of destructive internal collapsing ....into nothingness. A choice to become vapid, and barter your soul. Completely. More than just a Sell-out. Abandon to the mercy of the unfeeling machine that erases the identities of any cause to any altruistic purpose and give up the ghost of hope.
Which is better? To lose your way through cowardice or to lose your way through becoming too world weary to really be able to continue to care? I don't know. But what I do know is.... I did really try. I played it all true. And even if everyone who knows is laughing at me.... I think I would rather be left to the vulture to pick out my eyes than to feel I sold my soul for a smoother ride. At least I was true to who I am. And I guess I am prepared to burn forever for my foolish naivete because I couldn't give up the foolish crusade in search of the metaphoric Holy Grail.
My emotions are like a torn open pulpy flesh. And where once I couldn't reach in and feel the center core of where I existed-- and grasp to feel; I hang from that platform of sacrificial judgment under that Illuminating torch of sadistic exposure which has chosen no mercy in its cruelty. I guess I prefer to writhe in the scorn of personal truth than to feel the mockery of poison from the poisoned lick of a serpent's pit of false acceptance. Maybe that crowd doesn't audibly laugh at you, but the silence would be too loud to bear knowing you have played yourself false and worse when you can't look in the eye that sees you from your mirror. No, I don't think I'm a coward because I can locate my emotions and feel. Isn't it a coward whose choice is to take the well-mapped path that was neatly outlined by the brave predecessors who decided to ignore the well cultivated and beaten path they were once offered?