Would you spend the time with me, she said, some good time...Nothing remaining of the other, unfortunate, uncomfortable, unnecessary stuff?
I don't know, you know? I don't know what's good from bad anymore, it seems. It's too hard to distinguish. Life seems like a dart game, lately, where the bullseye keeps moving, there's no power in my throw, and when I try to point and shoot, my line of vision is even more unclear than usual. You know how it is with darts - and I don't even like darts, necessarily - when you don't throw them right. They don't go far, and even if they do, they wobble and fall in this sad spiral, to the ground. It's all in the wrist, I'm told. That's too bad.
I don't care about darts. I was just talking about taking a walk somewhere, maybe, by the water. You know, it's gotten nicer out. There's nothing too hard about walking, not thinking, necessarily, not feeling compelled to talk. You know, the way it was before it got complicated.
Honestly, if I thought there was a way to reduce it to that, maybe I'd try. But I don't trust it. I'm surprised you do.
Yes, I am too. But really, I'm not sure there's an alternative. Or, at least, that I'm satisfied with what they are.
The truth is, I don't want to think anymore, or do anything about anything, to be quite honest. I dream of water, and easier times, and sand, and wind. There are splashes of color, moments of happiness. I think of those, mostly. I dream quite practically, not fantastically at all, because you can't really dream about things that were real. It's just retracing steps...going back over lines that were apparently written first in pencil, however etched it may have felt. Not so much. Now your heart, like a chisel, makes itself own the memory, again, against your conscious will. The heart lacks sense. So you've always been told. It grabs everything - unbidden, uninvited - close to itself...talks nice to it, tells it it's welcome, when it's not. It's really not. It would be better to go away. It would be better to have a drink and watch a movie. But it's not ever satisfied that way. It wants blood. It wants whatever it wants when it wants it, like the infant that it is.
Stop it. It's easy enough to say. "I'd like very much to erase it from my memory," he said, last night. "to go back to how I was before. But I can't. Actually, I don't know how." He said it more simply than he says most things, a flatter tone, a weakened resolve. He'd never before reached that place of responding involuntarily to things that his conscious, intellectual mind had no interest in, the impulses that scratch at the door. They pace the floor like a latenight mother, waiting for the child who has no interest, no earthly plan, to call. It makes you YOU, and for that reason alone it's sacred. But it's evil. And insidious. And it has nothing of your best interests at heart. If it were your friend it would take you out for coffee and then leave you to an afternoon of meandering through shops with a blank check.