I’m losing her. I knew I would. Which is hilARious, as I never had her to lose in the first place.
I’m so day-to-day. I’m so moment-to-moment. Yesterday I was rah-rah, tackling the new year, determination to the hilt. This afternoon, chemicals leaving my bloodstream, sun setting, a few bricks landing on my head, I call. And as I pace the red sidewalk and hold the phone to my ear the sense of déjà vu is palpable and sickly like peanut butter on a desert-dried tongue. What is with those red sidewalks and me being emotionally eviscerated?
What difference does it make, one’s actualization, if there is no one there to share in it? What difference does it make, to throw one’s self open to intimacy, to the point of risking and experiencing danger and visitation, if one is never allowed to experience that intimacy? What difference does it make if moments, stolen from the grip of reality, are more real and fulfilling than a lifetime of realities lived before, if that monumental, opulent beast, that simulacrum fallen from the top of the mountain crushes all beneath its weight of history and decision?
Just days ago it all seemed so obvious: a life of preparation, of perfecting visage so as to equally reflect that which was given to gaze upon. Now, if all of life is only to prepare a more comfortable place to lay one’s head that evening, to gather a greater throng to chant one’s name, then why not take the smoke, swallow the drink, bury the needle, and call it good?
I tire of commas. I sit only feet away from where my then-wife called from a different continent to tell me she was pregnant with another man’s child. I wonder how that could not have prepared me for this.