It is a dark and stormy night and it is a painted space ... The wind, the creaking wood, the glow in the dim room. Both real and unreal... I contrive it. My being in the dark and stormy night, being alone in the creaking wooded room. I ought to be asleep. Lie asleep and dream sensible dreams. Wake and progress in the morning. Progress through the minute to minute being-in-the-world. But the painted space, a vacuum in the roaring night draws me to infinity. The written moment that transcends the tyranny of linear chronology.
C. is not here. And two pieces of my soul lie sleeping like angels. I need an elixir because I am being dragged down to the wasted sacks of unused moments. It is as if this fever draws me to confront these raining moments. An antikythera - I need the antikythera. I need the calculation, the orientation that will free me from my fears, at least to rise above the morose realities and to loose this cowardice. Tied to C. his absence is like acid on my skin, tied to my sleeping soul shards - my every waking moment concerns their continued existence in my world ... and the fear of any harm towards them is my shadow and daily companion. Love too much. Possess too much. Aladdin's treasure trove asleep in my room, in my big bed.
I find myself alone in the darkened flat in the darkened street, of a darkened city, in a darkened world spinning in a dark universe. Spinning recklessly out of orbit. Daughter of a reckless race. I want to stop still. Afraid to stop still. I'm tied and my bonds to life run like veins through my arms, my soul shards throb against the wound they left in my heart. I am not free. And the greatest fear is that none of it should matter. That it should be absurd.
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