Thursday, August 04, 2011


I have been thinking for weeks, maybe even months about reposting this because I think it's gold. People hardly ever think what I write is any good (or never think it's worth telling me they do) but sometimes I do, and I think I'm a good judge.

It's kind of a pity it didn't move the person I wrote it about but at least that taught me not to keep on believing I was actually any good at it.


Sometimes I feel like I could believe in your god, because they say he is the love we feel for each other, and I know that it is something elemental and real, which often seems to come from outside us, yet flows through us, yet is bigger than us, so much bigger that we can seem lost at sea, on the point of drowning. But I feel that you can never truly die so long as you have love, that you will be buoyed up just enough.

Sometimes it seems big enough to make everything else small enough that it can be overcome.

Man, how did I become stuck only able to express myself in words, and they are so insufficient. But what can you do in the face of something ineffable, intangible, yet powerful enough that you can be humbled by it?

Do you feel like that? I remember when I saw you, I felt like it made sense in a way that I could not possibly explain, yet if I ever could, I could wrap it up and sell it for millions. And of course I wouldn't; I couldn't. Because if I ever could, I would only want to give it to you for nothing.

And it cannot be your god, because it is not huge and untouchable. It is something tiny and precious, so little and fragile, I snatch it up and hold it tight, so tight in my hand, my fist clenched, afraid that if I open it, it will be gone, that I will open my hand and you really will have flown.

But there is part of me that never lies, a small part, deeper than anything else, and sometimes when it is still at night, when it is cold and I feel like nothing can warm me, it warms me. I know you cannot understand what I am saying and it feels like you dare not, but I cannot write the words it says because they are not in a language I understand, but strange and incomprehensible as it is, I am compelled to try to listen and I will die wondering whether I ever really knew. And I ask myself, does she have a place in her too that sings for me or am I just imagining a world in which I am more than nothing at all? And I won't let go from fear that that world is only something some corner of me has spun from the emptiness that would otherwise engulf me.


At 5:51 pm, Anonymous AJ said...

I wasn't going to comment on this or the other post because you've heard everything I have to say on both scores, but this bugs me so much I've come back to say something again anyway: "at least that taught me not to keep on believing I was actually any good at it."

That is just such shit that you would let ONE person's actions, no matter how much that one person meant to you, be the evidence of your writing ability. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that she was so moved by it, she probably cried for days, but all the other stuff going on in her head wouldn't allow her to act on it. But even if I'm wrong and she didn't, you cannot allow such idiocy as your conclusion to stand. Because it is idiocy. Whatever else you may not be good at, writing is not one of them!

At 5:52 pm, Anonymous Dr Zen said...

It's a question of purpose.

At 5:53 pm, Anonymous Bob said...

It is gold. You wear your heart on your sleeve and that helps make it so very fine, as AJ said. I suppose the void, the big space, is where creativity is as a hole to be filled. It can be a place of considerable pain.
Mentions of love can tend to sound either trite or obscure but you have made a different course.


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