It is hard, when your natural reaction to everything is to write a out it, to filter to process, it is all based in this out flow, thought to paper, thought to internet ether, out of heart by way of head. But then there are things you do not want to write, to quote Didion, to write it is to make it real. Something happens and it makes things come into sudden, crystalline perspective. And you pray and tell god thank you because even though this is bad, it is for the bes, you think if you can just get to gratitude it will not feel like you are going to combust or wither. You can confess things to god and tuck the words into hard sobs and writhe and kick the bed and collapse to the floor as you are walking out of the weight of the grief alone. But yr writing mind plays everything out like a movie, you see the narrative arc, all the details are etched, well recorded, perhaps even more fantastic than they happened in the first place: the before -- the first kiss and first fate and first phone call, romance's easy evolutions that make for sure future.
Then, this is where it changed.
Then, this is when I knew he wasn't in love with me.
Then there is when he knew.
And now is the part when he leaves.
And now it is written, and now it is real.Posted by Jessica at February 17, 2006 10:48 AM | TrackBack