There’s a dull ache somewhere inside. Hard to quite put your finger on when it started. Or where it’s coming from. Or what it is, really. But it makes it’s presence felt all too often.
Maybe when you’re walking down the street and see a scruffy stray sitting smack dab in the middle of rush hour traffic. A statuesque, kitschy sphinx seemingly oblivious to mortal danger, looking like it commands the flow of metal flying past it’s ears. You see a strange shade of green.
Your eyes trace the enchanting lines of a blue-grey plume of cigarette smoke as it languidly spirals upward and melts into a midnight sky busy with stars. He trails his fingers over your skin, reading a special kind of braille as he goes along. The goodbye in the offing’s inching it’s way up your spine. Unforgiving. Urgent. You hold on tighter and shut your eyes to the cold. Maybe then.
You see a flock of bats glide through torrential rain and you’re all the way down here willing your wings to work. But they’re just dandelion seeds you stitched together. Perhaps then you’ll know and you’ll throw an angry red-veined pebble at the sky, wishing the clouds would ripple just this once.
Remember when the setting sun was just barely kissing the tops of the trees flanking the highway and you sped toward that fabulously shiny destination? Whatsitsname. Oh yes, you were a chuckling magpie, right up till the tumbleweed hit you and you saw the broken swingset beyond the crossroads. Oh I’m sure you knew then.
You’d know if you heard the incessant clinking and the affected laughter of the swish set. But then a familiar voice chimes in. It’s yours. The unravelling of the latest whatchamacallit has you rapturous. You lick your chapped lips and can’t quite explain why the taste of stale chewing gum is stuck to the roof of your mouth.
That time, not so long ago, when naked tree branches reached skyward outside your window, like lightening that had been unearthed – did you get it then? Are you shaken by the uncanny feeling that you’re being strung along through a particularly macabre noir film by some celestial puppet master? You’re sure to know if you’ve danced the dance.
What I imagine was the first time around, that Molotov cocktail of uncertainty set me ablaze. And as I surfaced through my feverish daydream, gingerly pulling out the shards, I was rather disappointed by the lack of a symphonic crescendo. Instead, there it was; that now-all-too-familiar ache – dull yet gnawing and remarkably inexplicable. I think I’ve seen most things in bokeh ever since.
I still don’t quite know what it is, or where it’s from or what precipitated it. But put ink to paper and write me a letter. I’ll show you my mosaic as best I can.
I’ll read. You look. Maybe you’ll See what I don’t.