Jagged.  Brain-cranked.

Frozen in space.

I just know there are five hundred words to be had.  If I can just reach my arm up to grab them.  So many nights, I look out and it is this massive, placid ocean in my head.  To disturb it feels like it can only lead to sinking, to falling into everything, every story I’ve ever wanted to share. Instead, I float on the skin of it all.  It’s a little bit frightening when you feel yourself completely slip away and get swallowed up inside the process of a new passion.  Writing will sustain me.  This new poison, this new placebo, this is only a short-term solution, a shot in the arm to get you up and moving.  To be excited and not dreadful and dreading for a moment.

Pertinent to certain facts of this particular case that amuse only and specifically me.

There is something that has left me living on Faberge eggshells.  No heavy moves.  No concrete blocks.  No sincere emotion.  The only key to the success of now as opposed to the failures of the past is the ability to ignore the impulse to not engage and just be present to him.  I am aware now that I crave aloneness, but that’s because it’s the center of the floor, flat and safe, and entirely surrounded by risk at all sides.  To go anywhere at all is to crunch something glittering, delicate, that might be stared at and adored, held aloft in the light.  But what can you do with that beautiful egg once you’ve felt its edges, made your appraisals, but to set it back down to exist outside of you.  It is parallel, but equally separate as everything else.

I want to run the worn-out tapes again with this new soundtrack of freshly cut, heady delight.  I want to carry it down into the dark spaces, into the city centered in the black of the water, and lock all the doors.  I want to sit, cross-legged, private, shrouded, at the very center of my mind.  I don’t care if the towers crash around me, the clutching arms yank at mine, the woe and water choke the throat.  I want to live the old ways, the old magic, the freedom to spend my every waking hour in polishing the lustre of my own visions.  A taut circle fed by content and spinning around and around until is enough of a spire to spin through stone.  Everything I knew I had to give up to change, to gain access to knowing someone else.

I am not, at this moment, a good girlfriend.

This is dangerous.  An hour in the dark and the water feels shallow again, feels like I could run through it and make it to the other side.

After nights of silence, of a retreat to match my own, he’s sent me a card with no words, just scent.  Roses and sandalwood so I’ll know.  I’ll know something of a thing I can’t know this way at all.  A skin I lay on the surface of

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