curtain call

freefall is a section in weight of words for masturbatory, practice writing, random quotes and pieces of poetry. similar to a tattoo where an artist sketches an outline first before the very illustration, freefall is an outline of either beautiful or monstrous sets of words to come.

“I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible, and how it can actually ache in places you didn’t know you had inside you, and it doesn’t matter how many new haircuts you get, or gyms you join, or how many glasses of chardonnay you drink with your girlfriends… you still go to bed every night going over every detail and wonder what you did wrong, or how you could have misunderstood, and how in the hell for that brief moment you could think that you were that happy. And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he’ll see the light and show up at your door. And after all that, however long all that may be, you’ll go somewhere new, and you’ll meet people who make you feel worthwhile again, and little pieces of your soul will finally come back. And all that fuzzy stuff, those years of your life that you wasted, that will eventually begin to fade.” – Iris (“The Holiday”)

i’m writing an article about 18th cent. Italian architecture, and i am crying. my colleague must think me crazy for crying over 18th cent. Italian architecture.

i don’t know if this is a test or a technical dress rehearsal. whatever the case, i think i’m messing up my performance, i don’t think i am aceing this—this absence of yours that is finally happening. i went diving, felt how it is to have my throat too dry to even miss moisture, felt how water weighs me down, felt corals scraping my knees. with you, or to be more exact, without you, i feel only how my throat constricts. i asked for a sign about what all your silence means, and the sign didn’t come. so the trip back to the house was agonizing—thinking about you, feeling the start of your absence’s weight and feeling a snag in my throat. i was in the car, and i couldn’t shout your name, not even once.

with all the absence of signals from you, for the first time, i am being selfless. whatever you are doing—jogging, napping, dating, serving, teaching, living, writing, loving—do them all with that one feeling you’ve never had in those years spent with me: release from my hold. it’s amazing “how it can actually ache in places you didn’t know you had inside you.”

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