So. Yeah. I will need to report about tomorrow (report is a weirdly loaded word as if this were some kind of pass/fail exam) tomorrow. I don’t have the plan clear yet…
Well, maybe. I have a place and a time. And a paranoia seeping in two diverging rivulets. Fear that it won’t happen at all since I can’t tell remotely what the subtext is here since we’re suddenly off-script and fear that oh, shit, this is happening, like, tomorrow and I suddenly realized I don’t know how to use my arms and legs. I knock over mannequins on a regular basis.
It is exhausting. It is work worrying about this.
It was ever so much easier with you because you were not a moving target and it never mattered what I wanted because what I wanted was the slowest moving molasses flood to kill me. I wanted to be sucked under, inch by sugared inch. I wanted to be utterly aware and yet taken wholly by surprise. I was getting that even as you set my head on fire and you (no, not really) broke my heart (I broke it for myself, if in your name). You and I could tango with our own private miseries and make eyes across the ballroom. None would be the wiser, certainly neither of us. And I could build Everests out of mole hills. I could write paeans to the unsaid between us, aubades, elegies. I could fixate on the great feast of maybe you laid out and feel quite loved somehow. As much love as such circumstances could distill. And you, you could take my banter and my pregnant pauses and my long, slow deliberations and feel like the feudal lord you were. Until the serfs and the king banded together to hoist ye on your own petard. And it is until this very moment that I realize that I should be grateful that you didn’t look to me for solace, for succor, for solutions. Because it is until this very moment that I so wanted to give you all three…as best as I could, stuck to the floor as the molasses waves came across my shoreline. Now, I see that, impossible as it may seem, I am feeling kindly toward another soul who may or may not deserve it and may or may not reciprocate it and I could only be in a very dark place if I’d done something rash and tried to save you from yourself. Or insinuate myself in your disaster.
I am so grateful to you, Mr. Rochester, for getting the fuck away from me. Because I would never have been fast enough to escape the molasses flood.
I feel insecure right now. I’m rarely in this spot, as you all know. I feel like it’s all a house of cards. I feel like I don’t have any idea where I am right now. No script, no map, no plot. Just a goal to be of service in some way.
I’ll let you know, I guess.