Half-Assed & Drowsy Lament.

Day 7: I'm filling up my days with a meaningful jabber of activities. Poised between distraction as necessity, and my refusal to consider regret an option when we can see instead the future. Whatever the shade of context--I miss my invisible one.

I ran into this evening a fate that seemed far worse than mine: A man who lost his still-young wife to a heart-stricken disease. And merely months ago. This sentence, then, I must be grateful not yet to serve. The stairs that await my lover's steps, forever forsaken? If so, at least I do not know it now.

Here are the state of things: One shred of hopeful in the frail form of an email; my extremities aching with an unparalleled brash of exertion--the brief discomfort, a comforting thing; building words atop each other recklessly, and haphazard sentences sure to follow in the failed fall's wake; the peaceful sensation of plain powerlessness, to look time straight in its dozing eye.

I heard some of these words read by twin poets tonight: Matthew & Michael Dickman. My own thoughts feel numb and uninspired to compare with the maroon music of theirs. But the truth of the matter is that the words I choose are in fact inspired--only that my inspiration has ceased to show itself clearly. Rather, his foggy image maps onto my mind, merely a blueprint of what was and will be--but what is just isn't, in this much-too-long moment. (And anyway, all the words are as torturous to say as not, so I suppose I'd better--just in case it helps to say them.)

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/7/09)

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