I wrote this for you, before I knew better, before I understood how to reach in and tease the air from greedy alveoli back into the process, less catching in my chest as when you’re on my mind. I wrote this in the moment, reflexive and bemused, a parallel existence in my imagination, not dramatic enough for paper, not reasonable enough for real life, just a hope, skip and a dreamy jump away from this moment, alone in the hills.
Learning so much, about overwriting but not underwriting, about strange magician’s ciphers and the things that people do not know. Dozing in the swansong of summer, so far past and still it lingers, warmth better than any medication at slowing the mind to a couch-bound crawl.
The lives of others, in other words, the world I threaten to join, leaving my own in the dust, my stories coagulating in a past now forgotten, embracing The Word in other ways. And I may wrap myself in them all day and night, but I will need you, or another, or another still – someone to listen, to read me in another way.