Another Way.

I am inclined to melodrama, this I know. But, I also cannot hide the echo of the thoughts that haunt me. I cannot force myself to forget those few nights that lay out before me like a dream. I sit inside the short-lived silences inside me and I wallow unnecessarily in all the things I should have said. But, really, I have said everything; I have said more than enough. And now things unfold slowly, layer by layer until I am left with the withered remnants of what I thought might have been. I analyze and over-analyze each word, each breath, each light and telling touch for signs that things were felt, that things mattered. It is in each over-analysis that I drown beneath the weight of all I thought was there.

I cannot let go of things. I try to forget, to brush it off, but I am lit up by long talks and by a literary understanding. Nights where I raced home fueled by words which pounded through my mind and which spilled off the edges of my lips and out into the deserted, humid evenings. And I felt something full and yearning- whole yet reaching.

The days are long now and the sun is high and bright. I look out into the light blue distance and all the colors crisply coat one another. I sit for many long hours beneath the shade of a tree and read and write and absorb the dense heat and the thick flavored smoke I inhale.

But, I am also a mess in my head, selfish and stupid though I fight against it. I am a foreigner to myself, these days because my computer is broken and I cannot type comfortably and quickly and all my thoughts are long drawn out sentences written in long-hand. I sat at a bar this evening and tried to write an Anna letter. I stretched out all the things Fernando feels and examined them beneath the dim light of the Tavern. I found very little and only articulated things that I myself feel, and nothing that he feels or understands really. I suppose we are quite enough the same, he and I. But, also I do not want to shove my feelings onto him and make him react to someone he has already had an intense relationship with in ways that are my own ways. I suppose that is why I want so much to keep writing Catherine because I feel like it is only in that relationship that I can connect my own feelings to Fernando's without feeling like I am cheating him out of a personality.

I have been supremely distant from myself, from all the things I believe and all the things I understand. I have pushed my emotions aside to make room for someone else's interactions; I have sullied my own relationship with myself quite by accident but mostly because I have distanced myself from the things that I feel. I had to hold so many things back, to stand at an uncomfortable distance and look in on myself and all the things that I said and all the things that I did. And now it is all dust and I am trying to look at my life in another way, in another light.

Soft Whisps Floating Slowly.

If I could envision all the things I need to be, if I could put them together in a cohesive manner, perhaps I could fashion myself a life- or at least the sembalance of one. If I could step back from my Piscean sun and moon, if I was not so disinclined to make ordinary attachments, perhaps then I could find some equillibrium, some sense of balance. But, I am spinning myself a web of confusion; I am trying to twist myself around a great concern and equally a dissolving responsibility.

Everything swims, a blurry haze in my vision. Everything swirls in and out of itself like light clouds wafting, their soft whisps floating slowly and pressing against each other. I have trapped myself beneath the shiny skin of things past and the icy air of the inevitable future. I may just fall forward into the easiest solution; I may just run from it all and into the open arms of good book. Really, it's not all that dramatic. I am only dramatizing the things I am unsure of. I am only trying to stay above the surface of my emotions, to paddle through them, to wade assuredly no matter what.

Even Great Goliath Grows His Giants Underground.

I am in mid-air, my legs flying high behind me, eyes closed. I am on the brink of an exploration, a sudden knowing of myself in different ways, in subtle ways. There is a newly formed, recently underappreciated dedication that I have suddenly succummed to undertaking. Fernando is more alive than ever; he breathes in slow and quiet breaths. He is walking on his own sooner than I expected; he is coming to realizations about his own interactions, his own inabilities and equally: his abilities. He has ceased to throw himself into things and has stood aside and watched, waited. He and Catherine are building something solid, something weighty, worldly. She is a young girl but she is sure of the things she knows and she will only continue to know.

I am thinking again, in words. I am speaking words which hoover at the edge of my mind and which race forth and turn to new ones. Perhaps it is the change of season, the long days of sunlit skies and the hours of laying in the grass, with words lazily lapping at the edge of my mornings. Perhaps it is a sudden knowledge of something new, the way that the words creep out of the corners of everything and find themselves again at the tip of my tongue.

I can already feel the water splashing about on the sides of me. I have descended into the depths of the deep, dark lake. I cannot see to the bottom; it gets colder as I dive down. I do not bother to open my eyes; I am in murky waters. And then, I sit beneath the sun and the crisp air sends chills down my spine. And I bask in all the days left with the sun on my head and the water all around me, those days which have barely begun and which lay out before me undiscovered and filled with possibility.

Into the Depths.

Once again I am lost in the depths of words, in the tiny intricacies of someone else's thoughts, someone elses's sentences. And it is strange for me but I am staring down, at the edge of a precipice, carefully calculating the distance to the bottom. I won't jump; this much has already been proven. I will only stand there, gazing out into the beauty beneath me and comparing it to everything that lives inside.

Once again I am lost in the depths of a pale blue haze which emanates throughout my thoughts from two glowing eyes into which I always briefly glance. And it is strange for me but I am staring ahead, keeping a calm precision: acting. And with each sudden knowledge, with each precariously laid out sentence I am caught leaning further and further in, gazing out into the beauty beneath me and half-expecting that I might slip and fall down into it's depths.