it was just me, in that big house, in that big backyard, in that forest, in that clearing, in those shoes, in that red dress. i wished you were there. i wanted to show you all the canvases of sky, windows with no window treatments. it feels like all i ever do is wish for you, hope for you, think of you. i am smoking more frequently, feeling less, talking less, surfacing. i wake up early to do nothing.
"remember when? where are you? how are you? i think i'm going to die today. is that okay? not now? when? tomorrow? okay? let's get lunch first, i'm starved. i'll make you something and then i'll die, yeah? okay. oh, fuck, i have to mail some letters before then."
my writing is terrible, my eyes terrible. i can't feel, see, taste. i am forgetting what i wanted to remember, remembering what i wanted to forget. i want more. i want less. i want it all, i want it to be mine.
3 comments:
"Naturally one doesn't succeed at everything but one must want everything" — Jean-Paul Sartre
I do not claim to be even remotely knowledgeable about Sartre, but I recently read that line in the preface of a book about him and Simone de Beauvoir... it seems to somewhat fit what you've written here.
i think our souls are walking down the same road
i'm so glad to've found you
i think it does, patrick. thank you.
and bethany, i am so glad too.
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