Message Pending

I switch the little thingy off, pull out the ear-phones. I’ve been switching it On and Off for almost an hour now, perching myself in different parts of the house, desperately seeking a haven. I can’t find one. And I know why. Spatial displacements have nothing to do with peace of mind. Yes, that is what I was trying to say. You move from place to place, lie down, get up, pretend to watch T.V, fake liking a movie. But it's there, this ponderous, fixed gaze that you have directed at yourself, almost penetrating your everything. Incapacitating. This ominous, lurking thing.

I want to speak with You. Disrobe my mind. That is what I’m trying to say. I want You to plough and plough, further and further, till You find me out. You really can. If I call You now, it’ll be another of those long rambling pointless ones, with Father Time watching.

*************

I want to bleed. A bloody nose, or seeping oozing gashes that take very long to heal. The skin hardens slowly around it. Healing, they call it. If you are careful enough about not worrying it too much, it’ll leave you one day, when you peel it off with one smooth swift tug. It’s fascinating, this entire process. I wonder if I could actually watch it harden before me, witness the thick soft welt become a hard brown yielding crust which I am afraid to pull out just yet, knowing, all the while, of the presence of that soft, pink new-grown flesh underneath. But I just wait.

*************

There’s macaroni 'n cheese in the microwave. And left-over Love from yesterday. And of course, there’s cake, lots of birthday cake in the fridge. But stress-eating was never my thing. So wasn’t writing. Or was it?
Maybe mine is the dilemma of having it All. And yet not having anything at all. Of being an odd-sock with a soul-mate. I have enough reason to be happy, I suppose. But do reasons really count? Shall I count the reasons? (In Soviet Russia, do the reasons count you?)
Sigh. I’m losing It.
You will find me many reasons. And rightly so. I was happy this afternoon. There were things to do, there was your palm pressed soft-firmly against mine, and there was the smell of your hard-earned sweat. But it was the afternoon, full of possibility and yellow- light. Not evening, this dark swallowing beast, the residue of something you never decided to part with. With the grating chirp of Cicadas spreading underneath your muscle, your skin threatening to break in revulsion and revolt. And that ache, that familiar ache. That numbing, often almost physical, visceral ache.
That ache of having to find out that there’s little Affection to go around. That You are tired, so tired. And that I can count the reasons, but stop at three.

*************

And yes, I can’t conclude logically. Can’t see a strand of thought to its logical resolution. Can’t decide what this means, can’t figure out why that happens. Life is much too diffuse, much to complex for ratiocination.

And contrary to what you think, all This is not because I haven’t read a book in a long time.
Or maybe It is.
Maybe I should switch the music thingy on again, and press the ear-phones on. Life is much more beareable with a background score. And manufactured emotions, that don’t hurt so much, because they never belonged to you.
Yes, I’ll put the music thingy on. And wait till the Pending message is Delivered.