(Almost arriving at the meaning of Eulogy)
I constantly repeat myself. (Do I not believe myself? Is it possible to plagiarize myself?) I rewrite sentences and phrases. Over and over again. Sometimes I don’t know where the strength lies to accept distance. To endure rupture. To long for someone when simultaneously looking them in the eye. To miss someone when they’re right in front of you. To wish them away, so you can stop missing them. To forgive yourself for the loves and the ecstacies, even though all are inevitably lost. Compulsion. The elusiveness of voices I love most. That’s why I hate them so much. That’s why I want them so much. That’s why I try to forget them, because I am certain that they will continue musing upon my negation. Is all of humanity driven into itself through melancholia? Or might I temporarily huddle inside my illusions, my projections, truly believing that I am rare among the crowds? (How do I explain Nietzsche, then? Barthes? Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being? Prometheus? How do I explain?) Did I miss something here. Or does arrival always come late, the poem come after the poet, the love after the loss. They are not the things themselves, but the empty spaces that seem more real.
I close my eyes when I stare at the sun. Do you?
Is it dark right now, where you read this?
Can you live with yourself when you see me. Can you forgive yourself for the loves and the ecstacies, even though all are inevitably lost. (Allow me to remind you of Sartre: When you say “No” to something, you inherently say “Yes” to something else). There is a song out there, I believe, a poem out there, a butterfly. What’s that color curling behind my eyes–there is a song out there, I believe. A melody from nowhere. Where–I’m not sure. Voices. Where are they now, when I recognize them, at last? That’s why I think of them so much. If I carried around a pack of crayons. Smudged the edges of a dollar bill’s green. Squeezed some between my fingers. Traced the colors across my bellybutton. Around my breast. Could I stop the words. Halt the flow. Could I cry for me in off-white. And miss the sun in black. Dream in mushroom’s red. Would you hear me. Wordless. Voiceless. Tongueless. Would you know if I experienced love in burnt-orange–if I’d say wash the world away, and still be sure that you’d be in there. She. He. You’d be in there. The soapy water. The oily remainder beneath the towel.
