Or why this post ought to be called “arrested development” or “On deciding to make this letter public to make this a writing exercise, too”
G, remember the times we said, “fuck, c____!” and “fuck, n____?”
Well, I know we’re in that stage, and it’s not good. For me, most probably. For you, I can only imagine you and your lovely smile, you and your hands and his in yours.
It looks like I am thigh-deep in what we abhorred. Over bottles of beer, we looked for answers in moisture left on the labels. It was as if we were divining messages, but what was happening was only these: night folding deeper into itself, people dreaming, our hands becoming much too cold for our comfort.
So there: I am thigh-deep in that phenomenon. Or should I term it accident?
When it was at ankle level, it gave me a mild discomfort. A sting. A quick thump on my ankle. It was an irritation that was cured by a slew of songs.
When it was at knee level, I started to panic. I wanted to tear my self into pieces and be flung here and there like ragged pieces of driftwood. I fancied buying an inhaler, but my shortness of breath was not physiological. The shortness of breath was here, was immediate, was braying in my ears.
Now I am thigh-deep. This accident has revealed facets of myself I never knew existed. I was discovering new monsters in me, and they have limbs and several brains and they spoke and acted for me.
I am back to counting things that look similar, counting lampposts, counting steps, counting lines, counting bricks, counting tiles. This has never stopped actually, but now, I count as if I were chasing deadlines.
Oh and whenever A Case of You is played, I remember you, and I smile. We were like wolves howling the lyrics to the sky.