Secret Pop

Jul 23, 2004

I'll be your cocktail napkin.

I listen to the hum of the fan, and I imagine myself inside a machine floating in the depths of space. And it is no one else's fault that I am alone. And there is nothing to reach for. There are no failures to count or possibilities to assess. What is is. I would deem that freedom. The freest kind.

It's a marvel that I am not asleep at the moment. A marvel.

But I am in a sort of dream state. My heart is breaking for a dear friend. My fingers are sore from wringing. My heart is heavy. I can feel it in my eyes. I am tired of this slouching posture and the taunting, leering, jeering face of every time-keeping device in the room. My heart is breaking. But it seems that there is a numbness in the wreckage. And that smacks of conditioning. And that means that I have been here before. And that is the saddest story of them all.

I will be valuable when you realize you've forgotten. I will remind you. When you find me, crumpled and left, you will smooth out my edges and find the words you wrote. Will you remember what you meant when you wrote them? Will drinks or tears have bled the ink? Will the numbers and letters have all gone to mush? I'm sorry. I am more absorbent than I'd like to be.

No comments: