5.9.22

I am curious where the writing will lead me today, whether it will take the road down the street of that house or the second one or the third one and if I will be alone or if I will be with somebody who makes me feel alone. The other day, walking in the woods with you, the wind spoke through me and I said to you: when you tell somebody the truth, you are telling them something they already know. Then there was a silence inside of me, the disc skipping a track, making room for the the sound of a quiet knowing.  

Having arrived where I wanted to go, I began to forget ferociously. Forget, forget, Forget. I wanted to indulge in the silence, not knowing how to be honest when surrounded by noise. But today, I walked down the stairs from the deli and I opened the door into the spring day and the sunlight drifted down, warming my shoulders and I walked into the store with a melting sharpness in my heart. I bought a few slices of cheese and I stood in front of the man behind the counter and we looked at each other for a few moments before I asked him if he had a pregnancy test and he said no so I thought about buying toothpaste before deciding against it. So I said thank you and I walked back up the stairs and wondered whether I was insane and for how long I've been this way and why it was in the mornings that I was so deliriously sad. 

Ah, this is where the writing wanted to go. This question: When I say I want to be quiet, do I mean I want to forget? This writer is useless without hishertheirour memory. So without writing, is there silence or is there forgetting or is there some kind of living that defies words and memory and narration? This writer, this cheese-buyer, this insane girl in front of a deli counter, must choose. 

Why is it when I am afraid, do I begin to think that I am carrying somebody else in my body? I look at myself in the mirror and think: that can't be me. It must be somebody else. I wonder about mothers. What it does to you, that kind of carrying and then that kind of parting. 

I am thinking now how I might tell myself the truth.
And when I am brave enough to tell it, I wonder what it is I already know.