Prologue

 

 

I am spent,

          spending time as if I am so close, in reach of the better feeling.

 

I used to indulge in words, their sound and texture. I used to write them down and stare, thinking of what a wondrous creation those lines were, how easily lines can speak for me. But take a line, any line and give it to a man on the street - have him act as if it’s his own. It becomes simply that, a line - from a stage and yet still, we are taken aback. Heart wrenching and amazed, what a line can be. That’s what words have often been to me lately. The X’s and O’s sliding into another and some languages, into something I can understand no longer. Something of the complex universe, feeling as though I am losing the majority of the self I know so well, in the all the complicated sort. One crumbled piece of paper, and I know I am a goner. As I have been before…

 

But I must write, I have to write.

For her, to bring her back. Feel her again, I have to feel her again. I have to feel myself again, I have to feel what it was like before he pulled the trigger and before she took the blade. Even if the nightmares come back, I just need to feel. Emotion, touch, breath - against my skin. And even if not for the reality of it, at least in my mind.

 

So here it is, here I am.

Typing while the clock ticks, in rhythm.

Five months, give or take; we'll go back and take it from there.