March 16th, Year of Silence

Some people, mostly those that I knew as romantic partners, go on to become larger than they were when I knew them well. In looped memory, they are great masters, or gruesome beasts. Admittedly, few are elevated. Still, they all lose their humanity. Their transformation occurs just as soon as I call an end to our relationship, which may happen before it is formalized through verbal expression. The alchemical mind, it seems, has a way of making of all men a myth.

I think about Robert more often than I care to admit. It is almost as if my mind is hexed, or programmed to do nothing else. While I drink tea, he comes in to sit with me. We talk about nothing and everything, just as always. I open up a book, and there he sits, strumming his guitar. I walk my beautiful Ruey, and he struggles to keep pace. I lie down to sleep, and I feel his warm breath on my neck. I try to remind myself that he was only a glitch.

Obsession quickly causes me to turn against the person I think about, as if they were at fault for the shrine my mind has built for them. My brain is a medieval torture device. It is a misunderstood machine, a loyal follower of all things foolish. Aphrodite in the midst of a manic episode.

March 16th, Year of Silence

March 15th, Year of Silence

At night, there are creatures that hang on the oak trees outside. They create bizarre shadows, that occasionally dance, if the mood strikes them. No one should look directly at them or suffer the consequences, which if known, are not spoken. It isn’t nice to disturb the supernatural.

 
I may have imagined this, but I am never sure anymore. Not in the way that fantasy has begun to blend with reality. But in the way that fatigue hangs on my eyes, as if they were oak trees, and I don’t care to think more than I have to. And if I really have to, I would say I don’t think there are any oak trees outside.

I have always liked trees, even after Robert told me his friend had a hand in killing a man, and burying the body next to one. That’s what happens when you’re not a very nice person who shoots rabbits, he said. Or at least, I think that’s what he said. I can’t be too sure anymore. Not because I am losing my mind, but because I never had much of one to begin with.

Things with roots cannot leave you. They will never speed off, in search of a depth your love could not provide. A willow will not say it is off to have a talk with Jesus, on Solsbury Hill. I can say that it would of benefit to remain with me, since I am in possession of the Lance of Longinus, but it’s clear that what I have is just a pen.

March 15th, Year of Silence