Fateful Returns...Grimacing Outlet

After the direction was over, I came again to the suddenness of now. How I've lost the narrative I'll never admit, but it quite rightly was abandoned. Jude is out there somewhere, again with and without, our thoughts prove too...murderous and desirous for lack of hesitation. I have fallen, and out of this fall I have reformed the triumphant earth, her spires like windowbeams cracked against the everyday glass of other people's shores that bear the prints of other people's feet for the fleeting moments between ebb and flow. I suppose it's the drought that brings out this sense of noise. And again the noiselessness of sense. Perhaps I have grown deaf to the incoming visions of halfnights, dreamlands in which the voice of gods touches future memories, incorporating them into the stillness of a word seen but never heard, never fully understood.

The days are distichs, always two sunrises and sets for every one count, then a refurbishing of the collective transgression into "soul-suffering" or whatever stock phrase one must insert to move to the next one. The pain comes not from the inability to relate, but begins there and moves forward into the inability to be heard as one is, as one extends themselves into the ever growing chasm of instability and the essence of 'to be' listened to without primary self-interested goals. How is one a priori? How much of one is? When I reach out to the other selves and am flung into the night, how is it I gather the moment in a receding hairline, a timeglass of the effervescent everpresence that surrounds momentous occasions. It all glows slightly backwards.

The answer comes in the plain and simple fact that a Jude exists. Not she, not the specific (though the specific is inevitable; necessary); but as a general concept. It would have been better had we met in a market's produce aisle, pronouncing the superiority of rambutans over lychee nuts, and introducing ourselves to the nectar of night. It stands as a situation both mundane and romantic, nearly theatrical, but theatrics is not simply a way of seeing, it is the way we move: lines are premeditated and dispersed, agony of desire is displayed in the way we fail at eye contact but look back as we hope we're being looked back at, smiles are placed in exactly the right spot.

No, her existence, though silent now, is the very thing that makes capability a sensation not unlike waking up in the morning to find it is the middle of the night. Breathing is much like this. Feeling a sudden, unprovoked rush of adrenaline. Yes. That is how she exists within me. Nothing is arbitrary except everything else. Then there is a shadow released into the desire to be whole again.