combing through the wreckage…

More goes unsaid than is spoken when she talks in code. Who can decode some backhanded compliment when all you know is derision, or worse, silence? Well, that’s the cosmic joke on anyone who ever thought waking up and shaving meant you’d grown up. Doesn’t seem to mean much, if you trust in signs. Maybe it portends easier moments or just a few minutes of quiet peace without the damn phone ringing. Epicurius was a better man than me.

Baby steps seem the order of the day. Some cycles play out so damn slowly that it takes something other than patience to hold you over until you get to the part you’re waiting for. Being able to scan through the thoughts of people I’ve never met makes it easier to anticipate where a given conversation might be going. Still, it ain’t a matter of days or weeks or months but of slow conversations carving a place for something new where once there was only bedrock. I don’t need a mirror to see myself smile, it’s as simple as looking out through shoulder length salt and pepper hair. That should have taken longer, but I’d much rather play the hand I’m dealt than pretending to have all black hair.

Could be that the dissociative process will meander along without too much pushing on my behalf. My mind is split. Having already gotten much farther along than I would have thought possible, it would be too easy to withdraw again, pretend things are too hard, too much, too soon, that kind of cold-hearted bastard thinking. Fear is such an odd motivation for movement. There’s no rules against it, even if it doesn’t make any sense or follow any kind of logic. Hmm. Maybe it doesn’t matter. At this point, I have less than nothing to lose. I wonder what the other half of that conversation would look like. Waiting is the order of the day; no need to find out whats behind the door when its bound to eventually open up. Am I convincing anyone? Me? What can you do. Staying in bed wasn’t an option this morning.

The nights are rank with promise. Half open eyes are more than enough to digest the symbols, but not evince the meaning. That takes something more. Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure we can all sit around, figure out why we don’t do what we’re told, ask for forgiveness, promise to do better later. If you feel like you’ve done something wrong, bragging about it doesn’t make much sense. (Then again, I read somewhere that there is a sizable subset of the population that revels in sympathizing with the antagonist. It’s always more fun to be the bad guy, but surprisingly few people ever seem to understand why. Probably why there are so few individualistic good guys. Nothing like sacrifice to get the audience on your side.)

All that aside, seems so funny to do this little dance, play pretend in such an obvious way. My co-conspirator doesn’t agree. She has that devilishly attractive way of hearing the music and responding physically. She can practically communicate with her hips. I say practically because, again, there are much easier ways of heading off disconsolate recriminations. For one thing, when the one changes, or even just begins to change, the other has to change as well. There is no way of knowing where the changes wind up, nor that the two will even be compatible. Fighting against it is a waste of time. No reason to be one of those people addicted to locking the front door after the house has been burglarized. In the same vein, I fully expect to find out there is more to those “dire warnings” and the related timeline than first hinted at.

All that goes back to what I said to start this notation. “More goes unsaid than is spoken when she talks in code.” The worry seems to be that the code can be broken. Obviously, if it couldn’t be broken, there wouldn’t be much point to leaking the truth out the sides of words meant to have no truth at all. Dualism fails us again. Well, not fails, but certainly frustrates. It could just as easily be a dream, or a case of mistaken identity, or just projection. To be sure, if it’s projection, it’s the first two way projector in the history of the world. Naw, that ain’t it.

It does seem analogous to living in a poem. Trying to break through all the distractions and well-wishers without coming off a total prick isn’t the easiest line to walk. At the same time, the most important thing I can do is follow this whole thing as far as it goes. What luck… my greatest love, strength, and talent is spent on the narcotic of printer’s ink. I’m getting more comfortable in my skin, and finding out that there is more than one way to steal my heart. I’m weak in the knees for certain arrangements of words put down with some care and taste.

She might not say much in between sweet longing eyes and that caring heart, but what comes across is a mix between a welcoming smile and consternation that it took me this long to get here. “Sometimes it takes more than patience” I tell her. “Sometimes you really do have to want it.”

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