"Love me, because love doesn’t exist and I have tried everything that does.” Jonathan Safran Froer
I’ve tried to find my way back from Crestone but the interior journey is taking a bit longer than the highway seemed to suggest. We sped through the mountains and the snow a few weeks ago but my cells trailed along like breadcrumbs and they are slow to rejoin each other. Like a freaky horror movie, like a Star Trek transporter, reassembling here and now from there and then. On their own timetable.
I cut you off, like a gangrenous limb. A slow and steady poison. But I can’t talk about that.
I’ve tried to seat myself here but I am not the me I was. Or maybe I am more the me I was? Tonight is full of memories — the stars at midnight, an intricate shadow cast by the leaves of the trees on the snow covered trail. Maybe I miss myself?
There is no more memorabilia. You said I was clinging to the past so this time I tried something different. I threw it all away. Deleted it. Gave it to Goodwill. But I found my drafts today. My feelings and thoughts without context, punctuated by dates. They paint an interesting picture of self-delusion. But I can’t talk about that.
The changes are subtle. There is a pause now where I can see between the moments. It is freeing when it isn’t overwhelming. The theme of Dathun was death for me. Before I left. While I was there. It is interesting that I wear a Phoenix on my back. I’ve died before, you see.