tuckova

A deep sadness that I have examined EXHAUSTIVELY over some 23 years and which would not go away and so instead became a story I am tired of telling; tired of telling myself, tired of telling others. Do you get tired of telling the story of how you met, your first death, your first birth, a funny mistake you made in a foreign language? I have told this story until I could tell it to anyone, until I had nobody to tell it to anymore, until I could tell it in my sleep, until it had no power over me. Yet it still exists, the sadness that made the story. Still a thing that happens, a tide that pulls up with some regularity. And I have to say, ah, there it is, that again. But I just don't feel like telling the story anymore and so instead there is a silence to observe it, like some sad anniversary. Maybe some day we will have picnics and fireworks and completely forget the meaning, though I don't think so, not in my lifetime.

Another story I promised to be done with already in 2009 that keeps telling itself while I curl away, ears plugged, wishing for some lizard-skin spine to keep it off of me, yet it settles on my shoulders again and again, this disappointment, this anger, black wings that are incapable of flight.

Heard the title of a song I once loved, a madeleine, so I went and dug out the tape. This is a tape he made for me before he left and so it belongs with him in my mind but it is also entirely mine. The plastic stretched and warped beyond repair, I can't even play it anymore, but now I can download the song in a heartbeat and listen to it again, remember curling around a speaker so that the sound reverberated through my body, how much I felt music then, literally. Listening to a song over and over; how it was to believe that if I listened enough it would be more than an echo of my feelings, that it might explain how to get out, because there is always that next song.