You assimilate pain and fall in stride with his backward shadow. His tendency to string words as a form of routine, is just as mechanical as the way he sits in front of a computer screen. There are the arched fingers and occasionally there is the soft outburst. Like in dance, the crescendo comes with a sort of fire, and a choreography is made equivalent to that of a couple vibrations. In those moments of curvature, in which the hands flail upward, and the body denies the shape its been handed, there is a passing moment of sincerity, there is the risk of secrets being revealed, there is the heart that desires love.
You’ve read the history making him this way. You looked over ancient essays meant to be read at night by comrades that would knowingly respond with a warmth incomparable to what it was the earth could bring. You know there were holes in the dialogue however. You know this, because he confirmed that there had been some elimination of truth. There had been an elimination, due to the anxiety one feels while trying to process a change that brings something different, something scary, something obtrusive. You felt those caves of neglect in the bone. You felt that version of him, and that version of you, back when you were both young and cradled visions of magic; a sort of fractured skeletal discovery, leading to the construction of some new dinosaur, some new bird.
Now you sit in a cold room in a town that’s smaller than what it is you wish to accomplish. You talk big and the people don’t understand that. Instead their faces blur and turn into Picasso portraits with the paint all wet still. You get angry and buy a camera to capture the misconfiguration. You smile when you get it all right. You can tell by the way the colors swirl together. You don’t need someone to direct you to do this. You push the button and shoot. You write the same way. While that boy fears the output, you just crackle laughter, and cry about how tragic everything is. Meanwhile, you send letters to fellow ghosts.
In the aftermath there is a sort of death, and you feel this in the song “Fistful of Love”, that your best friend hammers in the skull, when sex is a coin phrase you like using, in order to fight off the monotonous excuse of failure. In the extremity, you acknowledge abuse, but you find your abuse in the space of silence. There are knives that jar out of static and there are stars that bring forth memories of your brother. You look up at the sky and find yourself writing some more. You tell yourself you will go to the city. You’ll get lost and feel good.
You read this and cry. You read this and know you’re doing something right.