Je suis dans le besoin de conforts mais ne me dis pas des mensonges.
i may be in need of comforts but do not tell me lies.
MORE ON FEELING INSIGNIFICANT
anything i do, somebody does it better.
a lot of other people do it fuckin better.
like writing.
like loving you.
Puzzle-Picture Perfect
I was away.
Took with me a paperback, a notebook, a pen and a jigsaw I cannot complete.
Let me tell you about this jigsaw.
With every attempt, I would get one part of the picture and the rest would lie in pieces. Often, I suspect that there is probably no picture, only fragments. Because, always, I end up with only just that. The weird thing is that other people seem to glue them together somehow, make something out of a collage of sorts, and then tell me they’ve got it all figured out. They do this sans the worry that they may have been using pieces from several different boxes.
A few weeks ago, I realized that best are the days when I let the jigsaw assume its own meaning. To no longer care what picture is emerging. To be unfrightened by the unexpected. If there is beauty, it will surprise me. Delight me even. If it turns out to be dead-ugly, well, I guess could just scramble up the pieces and let the jigsaw take its own shape all over again. As I said, I am unfrightened by the unexpected.
I was away.
I am back now and the jigsaw is still incomplete. The puzzle remains as it was but then again there is always time.
I may never truly figure it out but there is one thing I am sure of — whatever the picture is, it will not be the one on the box.
With this certainty, there is meantime comfort.
Anastasia, please.
Anastasia is nowhere to be found. She isn’t under the bed. Neither outside my window. I miss her. Things haven’t been very beautiful around me lately and there’s no one to tell it to but her. I wonder if she has seen Sun lately. I haven’t. I should have asked him where she might be but I’ve been too scared to step out of the house to do so.
Anastasia loves Sun more than I do. And she knows I adore Moon. Yes, despite all the stars around Him.
Has she been dancing in the rain? Has she found somebody new to dance with? I’ve been dancing alone for days now.
I keep going back to my notebook, praying she’d whisper by. Maybe I don’t grasp my pen hard enough because always I just find myself staring at the blank page. And,well, it’s just staring back at me.
Sometimes I think if I play the saddest songs I know, on the blue box, on the turntable, on the piano, on my mind, I might bring her back. But the songs rarely come to an end when an unexpected visitor comes in, and I would have to stop. Anastasia, how come Teardrop pays courtesy calls when I am least prepared for him?
I’ve been learning a lot of things from a new-found stranger lately. So-called Decent Pest talks about things I wish I had known earlier. Disconcerting things like love being a mere mind-construct. I tell him not to disillusion me. I wanted to tell him, “No, it can’t be… Love has to be anything but something simply made up…” But then I realize, this is almost comforting… This is the perfect time to be disillusioned. Just perfect.
And so we go on talking…
Flash to now.
I am going out tonight. First time in days. Nights. I might drink. I might have a good time. I might start speaking again.
I might look for her.
Wait.
Maybe if I lose myself tonight, she’ll find me.
Yes, we’ll do just that, won’t we?
