I haven't written in a long, long time it feels. I couldn't. I couldn't bare the feeling of the truth coming up from my body made of concrete and out my hot and living mouth. Words become real, they make it honest. They make me honest. But something in me opened up when I looked at my watch and it told the time - 1:43, Standard Pacific, something remembered, remembered the page and the voice and the story I'd been weaving. I think I'm on a long, long journey. Into some deep wilderness with no day and no oasis.
If I was a braid, tight and neat, a thousand strands separated into three, and woven back together again in a fish tail, then I have been unbraided. I've been pulled apart, and separated again, and again, putting things in and taking things out, undoing it all from me. Taking out the land, the animals, the love, the hope and possibility. Unbraiding from myself the memory of delighted expectation. Removing, one by one, the pieces of thought and memory, projected on the inside of me 1000 lumens bright. I lied, in Ojai, I lied. About the work and what it meant. That work was about abandoning self and choosing descent because of an inescapable love of pain. That work was about getting lost and no one comes to find you. It was about breaking a promise to myself, a promise of fidelity and chastity to my purpose. I broke my own marriage vows. It was about trust vested in those unworthy of it, and the terrible consequences of not following you're own inner authority. It was about how you can ruin everything.
Nothing in me believes that you love me anymore. Nothing in me believes in the future.
Quick, no one witness me. I couldn't bare the site of you seeing what I see. The hot feeling of your gaze on my broken and open skin. I am so ashamed.
Finally, my watch told the truth and so could I.
And they'll come home, wagging their tails behind them.
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