let me pick my way slowly through the pieces. the past four, almost five months have passed in a blur; it's unfair that happens because each day comes so vividly, they shouldn't get mashed up together like they didn't matter or have individualities, they did. i have gone from amused to novel, to blasé, to worn, to a hundred places in between. some days it feels like i stand in a white room while jigsaw pieces rain down upon me, things are breathless and piling up, the clues the obstacles, my hair loose falling down my back.
these months are for waiting, waiting is not so hard anymore. i sit sometimes, stand sometimes, move around like a stop-motion video. where i am has desks and chairs, cupboards and screens. the world is stopping for the weekend. i don't move as much as skirt, navigating between metal cages and books, glares and growls. now and then the clock breaks down and i am left dangling in space, leaning against the wall. sunlight fights for space with me and i lose time. everything is yellow and outside the glass panes are tiny men constructing a river from soil.
memories that flash have cheated, vietnam, mongolia and new zealand. impersonable, i have found the word. today i tried foreign, distant, past. i wonder why, and if it is because they wandered to other ports of call. the flavour is gone out of them- they are a stranger's memories. or perhaps i am the stranger, and these are someone else's memories seeking refuge in me. she keeps the flavours, i the chronology. once you were gone/it was never an honest world
there isn't really much else to say, except i think of the present and future all the time, and impassively of the past. i find hearts and size them up, sit on buses and lose myself. this is a time of waiting.
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