After I flunked out of college for the first time I spent a while where being a witness to the sticky difficulties and joys (these were not two different things, but the same thing) of the interpersonal communication of others. This was my way of hiding. I could stand behind these gropings and shiverings and public appeals for grace and hope for a whiff of direct experience caught on the wind. I got lost, and spoiled my lurker invisibility with want, and someone else's blood caught in the treads of my boots seemed to be a path I could follow. I kept company with those rehearsing inevitable tragedies and I was there to proofread suicide notes and take last known photos. I thought this was experience, and I suspect for certain people there's a shimmering something to be seen, but I'm the obliviest and the lessons passed right through me. Later, when hiding was my way of hiding, I let my body sit in that other place while something that was not my body stood behind my body sometimes, and sometimes did other things. People tell me this was a long time ago (by which they mean I am not who I was, or even who I am), but people also tell me life is short, and if they can have it both ways then so can I.
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- ▼ May (84)