Much of the rain today is not the usual trace of memory,
or bit of ordinary imagery. Not like
tears, though specks nevertheless drip down the unclean glass, slipping through
the little cracks, into yesterday’s sun.
Yesterday’s sun, he who brings to life the ashes from the
fire, we watch this cinematic portrayal of the tattered, and untidy. Little
tiny particles bowing in the air, basking ‘til the curtains drop- and we know
they always do.
We were there where the lights change, and the houses
full of strangers, full of stories simply cease to be. I took you, or you took
me, that I cannot remember. There we thought to freeze the moments that were
already frozen, lifeless. Note that I tried to keep you in focus along with everything
still, and different. You were there laughing at something I had said, though
maybe I was serious, nevertheless, you must have had some place else to be,
because you were gone… and all that remained was me.
That’s when I saw their faces. A picture I did not
entirely wish to recall, but there it was… Hair a labyrinth, or web of
considerate misguidance, but had I ever been one to get lost or entangled
unintentionally? No less transparent had the eyes been, colors as clear as
shallow waters, overcast by the luscious lashes, those dodgy shades of gray. It
had been them, for it was not me who would have blended my shades in with
another so easily.
Now that I think about it, I hated that painting. I mean
I really hated it. Every inch, and every stretch of it, every shape, and every
color in it, and they were all there, all of the colors, all but the one I was
finally seeing across a wall they had long since covered. Sometimes it can take
years to come across a truth that may still only remain so for a moment. For
we’ve all places to go, many times to move on.
I couldn’t help but picture the whole thing. Of course
not just that one isolated incident, but that which had surrounded it. Like the
old man who swept the shattered glass of youth, sweet fragments of the
careless, though he was by no means a saint. He who cleans the surface with
depths left unkempt. I know it now, just as I knew it then.
It still rains, and I wonder just how vague I can still
be, just how untold I can tell this story. Every cigarette feels like a fucking
vacation from this book being read from the middle. This book with no certain
beginning, and no traces of any end. Nothing but the middle, where I
happened upon myself looking far across the stretching empty spaces, of
every direction.
