I remember Her. Her is not a flesh and blood; not a mind or a soul. Her exists within me. When we have Her sad songs have a strange effect on us. We mourn how those songs once made us feel, how we know we will feel again one day when Her disappears. Yet we rejoice always that we have Her now. Even as our eyes narrow and hearts flood with the sorrow we remember and the sorrow we foresee, we are numb to it now. Her is fleeting. I remember Her. I just wish I didn't.

Let it not be that I get what I deserve, even if that is what I want. I can’t talk to you; you are inescapable. It is of no use; there is not an end. Bothering all the time with where am I, how are you, what will be, and most importantly, what has been.

What can’t ever be? Can it be there is never a we, always, only, a me? And what is me? A collection, vast and above time, of all we’s. The we that cannot be is the only we that matters to me. Blasphemy.

Again, ignore. Brush it aside as one and once and for all. I just want to give it all away. I don’t want what you taught me, I don’t want to remember anything anymore. I just want it gone. I want one. And you took that from me. I took that from we.

God, if I become anything, let it be that I become something who trusts all things, instead of something who reviles all things. Let it be that I become all things; it is my separation from all things that takes everything from me. It’s not that I hate what I am, it’s that I hate what I’m not.

This all starts outside the window and collapses toward my widow. For there may be some woman who has already lost her husband to all this. She’ll never know, but does that prevent a tragedy? It doesn’t seem so.


In some future (perhaps the one that begins at the end of this sentence), I will be something worth confiding in.