Read This

Wandering around this empty house again. Sure, it’s full of furniture, and art, and a host of really nice things, but it feels empty as the day I moved into it. It feels cold, and bare, and I wish I didn’t hear the echo of my own voice. Hell, I’m not even saying anything. And why do I pace incessantly? My poor dog knows that something is wrong; she just follows me around for the hours that I walk, stopping behind me and looking up quizzically when I stop in another empty room, look around, and continue my aimless wandering.

I spend most of my time alone. A remarkable portion of the time I’m just laying on my back, staring at the ceiling. Just for a change of pace I’ve started having my staring contests in my study; at least in here it’s appropriate to look aimlessly pensive. Among the dark cherry bookcase of great philosophy texts, classics of world literature, and bittersweet poetry I can try to feign the appearance of contemplating some important this-or-that. The expensive computer and office equipment helps to enhance the façade that some serious work is probably being done, and the furniture is nice enough to look like such work produces rewards. If it wasn’t for the unblinking, million-mile stare I might look like a guy who had his shit together. A thoughtful, industrious mind contemplating a bright and promising future may appear to be at home here… but there isn’t.

The music is always dreary. There’s no more reason to listen to the up-beat and happy-sounding shit I listened to last summer. Everything is tuned in minor these days. The beats are slow and reverberating, heavy-laden with the remorse and anguish of some disembodied voice begging for a second chance, or a reason why, or just pouring out what little emotion is left before their chest caves in and they become, well… empty. Still there are others that tell stories of great loves; loves that told of such immense happiness and flourishing, but that always kept a secret, so the love was sort of bright and dark at the same time. The voices speak of all the promise and beauty of the love, but they all end up lamenting the myriad missteps they made to fuck it all up. I can’t help but think of Icarus and his ecstasy as he experienced the greatest heights of joy that he would ever know, and how his screaming, desperate body fell into the sea where he drown, unnoticed by the world. Poor fuck.

So often I sit with a pen in my hand, focused on putting beautiful sentiments onto the pages in front of me, but too often is the case that the page goes unscratched, and the ink unused. It’s not for a lack of thought; there are too many there to count. It’s not as if my mind is going blank, or that I can’t think of anything to write, in fact it’s just the opposite. I have so much to say about something so beautiful, but my hand refuses to move until it is compelled to write something meaningful enough to pay proper tribute to the face it once touched. Knowing the high praises due, my mind becomes ever more frantic and furious, until finally it concedes defeat. So there I sit, powerfully moved by the might of memory, but utterly motionless. In vain I sing her songs, but with those disembodied voices; with no pen there to clutch, I write her words with different hands.

I remember the message said, “If I answered the phone, what would you have said?” I wish I could have given her the answer that I wanted to give. I wish that I had the mind of a poet. I wish I had the voice of a troubadour. I wish I had the face of an adored actor, and the means of wealthy man. For if I had these things, I know the answer I would have given her. I would have said to her, “Wait for me. I’ll be there soon.” And no more words would be necessary then, or ever again. We would simply be.

3 Responses to Read This

  1. Pingback: My New Life | facedownphilosophy

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