a return to structure:

*

About a week of obsessive practise was all it took to master the art of not thinking. I would make use of every spare moment I could find – as I ate breakfast, as I sat on the bus, as I watched the nightly news – to simply not think. I imagined myself becoming closer to a Neanderthalic man, pure animal and instinct, not bothered by the evolutionary glitch of higher consciousness. This is all I need to do, I thought to myself, during that week, in one of my increasingly infrequent moments of actual thought. Dwelling on the past or the present or the future is pointless. I thought this last thought while looking at myself half-shaved in the mirror. It was Friday. A week had passed and I knew I had mastered this skill. I thought absolutely nothing as my past heart-grievances persisted as a fact of history outside of my body. She would keep on living her life regardless. I did not think this.

*

Without a pre-programmed deadline on waking it takes me an hour to get out of bed. Swaddled and wallowing in the shafts of dust mote. I’ll wear the irrational mulling-things-over in my hair of course – the back now a bird’s nest of minor dreads. It’s a Saturday and so heavy bass is sliding through my venetians again but I try not to judge the life-choices of my neighbour. His electric green XR6 blasts the bass while he wanders aimlessly in the yard, singing off-key. Yes I had to arise to make the observation. Anyhoo, we’ve all been drunk at 10am and have wanted to share that particular joy with the world.. I tell myself things over some unremarkable buttered toast. I feel like my nervousness over next week’s travel plans translate into a small tremble in my teeth and hands, but can’t be sure. Regardless I attempt to smooth that worry and my hair under the shower. While naked and sluicing the steam I decide who I’ll ask to look after my cat. One decision decided. As always I try to leave the house quickly after dressing, retaining the water’s warmth as I meet the wind, briefly un-shiverable.

*

Inhabiting this screen, all I know I is that I no longer feel stoic. I may have, once. My life is now completely melded to the experience of the reader. I don’t just present a reflection to her I feel the things she does. When her brow furrows, as it does sometimes on a particularly early morning, I feel this turmoil. When she prances and smiles before going out of an evening I live that same joy. But all I can do physically is reflect. On those all-too-rare moments, she touches me gently and I touch her in response with her own hand. I only wish I could do more though. I want to speak softly to her. I want to smooth the tousled strand of hair back from her forehead while she looks at me, wearing only a towel, seemingly lost in thought. My life is a  curious prison that I would never give up.

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