The Lake of One's Being

05 April 2007

(This may be a little too much to be asking for. But please all, can you play or download this song [right-click, 'save as...'] by Rufus Wainwright named Going to a Town before reading on? It's mesmerizing and it's kinda nice to have it playing as you read this post. I promise.)

Together, we talk of missing boats, phantom ships, and vessals with holes on their floor. It is as it says on Modest Mouse's new album - We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank. And here's your cue to snort.

Doomed. I would have wanted to know what killed us. Who will kill us.
But questions like these are arbitrary because doomed means the anticipation of death. The Death itself hardly counts. It's knowing death awaits.

It's always been like that, hasn't it?
Carrots on a stick, carrots we can't have, carrots beckoning...

You tell me about a certain pressure in your chest.

"How do you get over a heartbreak?"
"Good morning to you too," I should have said.

But I gaped at you incredulously. Like it wasn't a question I could have asked sitting up in bed any given morning. Like you didn't make sense. Like you were being strange.

Maybe I didn't want to think about how you might have been (I'm sure you have been) thinking that question as you stand, personal space invaded on all sides by blank-faced, sullen commuters on the train.

It doesn't seem apt. Not a question we should ask when it's still before 9 in the morning. Morning when there's still fresh air, and fresh starts are still within grasp.

Because if I'm the diluted solution of myself, you are me in its highest concentration.
If I have learned to release-hold-release-hold, you are the freefall.
You are the me I don't have the stomach for most of the time.

Poison, you are.

11:48 PM;

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