Thursday, May 4, 2006

Closed Book. It's All Too Late, For Now.

It's a strange feeling when you think you're just going to see a movie, but you end up paying no attention to it and focusing on your life. You squirm uncomfortably in your seat, wondering if he is feeling the same way or feeling anything at all. By the time the credits roll, you feel like collapsing, crying, and you're not even sure if it's really all that sad, or if you're just feeling extra sorry for yourself.

Was any of it ever real?

Oh, I know just what you mean.

And then I tell myself the obvious, the logic that does absolutely no good at all: Do not pick at the wounds, they'll turn into scars. Do not let yourself go. Do not let the silence, get into your blood stream, pull you away from people, other possibilities. This replays in my head like one of those recordings you hear in airports that instructs you not to accept gifts from strangers and not to stray too far from your luggage. The words are practical but entirely useless.

Eyes cloudy, the storm is here.

I don't want to be driven away.

Open the book.