Monday, July 04, 2005

About S

I print out her picture because I want to keep it with me. Is it seeing someone to see their picture? I don't know. I know I don't like to be seen. That's all I know.

If she saw me, she wouldn't like me. I don't like to be seen because I am sure I am not a thing that should be seen. I don't know why I'm sure. I just know it the way I know anything else I know. (Sometimes people say "how do you know that?" when they are surprised that I know something, or even that I remember something about them, and I blush and say, "I don't know", because truly I don't.) I know that the image you have of me is what I want to be seen.

If she knew me, she would stop thinking so much about me. Why do I want to be known when I know that? Why do I want to be known at all?


Did you ever feel you were asking the wrong questions? I make myself laugh. I don't think I've ever asked the right question. That is why I don't have answers. And yet other people's questions are easy. I should approach myself as a project.

I think I fear the judgement of Dr Zen. He's not likely to like what he sees.


I want to meet her so that meeting me can destroy meeting me. I want to be shattered, small and worthless.

How can a person stop wanting to be in pieces and start wanting to be whole?

Above all, I want her to love me. I want to touch her on the face and for her to like the touch, for it to be the touch that consoles her on her sunless afternoons, in her hours of need. And yet I do not want to be thought about, talked about, needed, heard or seen. I do not want to be anything. I am envious of leaves, drifting on the breeze, fading, their colour seeping out, becoming nothing but ribs and veins, then not even a thing remembered, gone.


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