it’s the mornings in which they are fragments that are the most bothersome.
slices of faces,
splashes of touch,
shades of light
linger & intrude into my waking hours, sparked by words & noises, as if my day has been specifically designed to force me to piecemeal remember.
we can talk about the ever-present present, but when invaded like this, it quickly becomes the ever-present almost. the moment while passing a cigarette where the holder is uncertain if the receiver has control of the flame yet and hesitates. limbo. almost. where. don’t wanna burn the house down. don’t wanna drop it in the snow.
the dream fragments are statements of impossibility with no narrative. they attach themselves to short term memories like barnacles on the underside of the ship. others become present who were not, could not be present. things were said that would never be said, cannot be said.
the daylight is spent sorting through memory and dream. dissecting. naming. compartmentalizing. retelling the truth to myself. remaking it real.
there are times i ponder what this process will be like when i am in the final third of my life, instead of the first. will i have established a reliable mechanism for determining reality? is this a skill i can master? or will i slowly slip further and further from it, my dreams & days becoming interchangeable, a cohesive psychic narrative that follows the sun, unbeknownst to anyone but myself? if they knew, would they think me mad?