I stood today in the bookstore, a cold mess. Like a flower pressed between Bright Star and it’s empty adjoining page, I became colorless and bled over; Awake forever in a sweet unrest. Small eternities passing briskly through my twisting hands as I towed the depths of the afternoon.
Things are getting better. I still wander some nights, but not far and I am not having nearly as many ‘lapses’ or whatever it was that they called them. Anyways, I’ve always preferred the night. I choose to believe there is a secret calm. An entirely different world, and it does seem to be all mine. I become a small echo, bouncing aimlessly around. A drifting heartbeat, pried from its hutch.
Lately I’ve been having this strange restless feeling. Not in my thoughts, but physically in my legs. I feel like I want to start sprinting sometimes and just really take off into the street. It’s a feeling I haven’t had since I was young. The problem though, is that running just doesn’t seem fast enough, even when I try. I end up disquieted and unable to do anything at all about it - another feeling I haven’t had since I was young. At least not in this way.
With it comes this recurring feeling that I may die soon. Not in a morbid way at all, just a familiar fragrance of something I can’t pinpoint. Not unlike being homesick, I suppose. In my head, it’s always in motion. To die while hugging an elegant curve, bending with the light around the trees. It would be prettier that way. No one would be able to place flowers at the side of any road, because I’d have spread my last breath across half an acre. The entire city could be mine. I suppose that might be a little morbid after all, but you’ll understand. I’m sure of it.
I’m not sure why I’m writing now, after all this time. Maybe because it’s always been easy to write to you, and so many other things seem so difficult lately.
I’ll leave you with something I copied down in the bookstore earlier.
Love’s the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite `The boy stood on
the burning deck.’ Love’s the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames went down.
Love’s the obstinate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too,
or an excuse to stay
on deck. And love’s the burning boy.
I hope my words find you well.