set in perfect stone

Here it is. The immeasurable now. Staring you in the face, swallowing your words, eating the things you see as truth, wondering. Why, you ask? I answer and answer and answer and all you do is appreciate and say that yes, I am alive. Alive. To know you is hardly… to know you… all wrong. I’m coming up… singing the words to a song that isn’t wholly mine, and isn’t wholly yours. And knowing that things are as hard as you pictured them when getting a pillow and getting ready for a funeral. And every occasion I’ll be ready. And asking and asking and demanding an answer and getting a free hug from the person you want the least. And wanting the things you want the most, and feeling the lowest. This is the innumerable now. The screen has been fucking up, and now I have a picture I have from China. You forget this feeling (or at least I do) and then you’re just left with the idea, even just the shadow of the idea. When the feeling returns you want this again and again but then your eyes jolt open and you realize that you are profoundly alone, even with arms around you, suffocating you, making your thoughts spin at a million miles per hour. And for the first time in weeks, I actually feel like writing. Not just for the sake of words, but also as a venue to cover with ideas and make understand every single person who it is that’s behind these wires. Halfway around the world and filled with daggers. Armed, but without any intention of fighting. This is what I can’t see anymore. This is what has gotten so close and taken me so far that when I try to feel it, mold it, make it my own, and break it apart, it spits in my face and reminds me of how small I really am. I would like to believe that you understand, and upon a second a third and a fifteenth reading you will attach explanations and layers to add to this veneer. Except that, it will still stay so opaque and so removed from anything you can ever grasp that when I see you looking I will know that you’re no closer to understanding than the guy next to you in line for coffee. You’ll think that there’s more to this, what you could have done to affect it, and what you could have added to the tall dark. The answer is again here. It ends where it began. The n o w, the pixels, the fingertips, the sweet breath of time, and an apologetic, somewhat detached, ‘no.’