10.13.22

I'm trying to listen to myself. The sadness asked for my attention today and instead I folded laundry. I went to work. I put an umbrella up when it rained. I laughed when appropriate. I did not think of writing. I thought of writing. So many people were kind to me. At times I did not know what to say so I did not say anything. I did not know what to do with kindness. I thought I knew what was beyond the door, what was waiting on the other side. I thought I heard your voice. I thought I could reach you. I really can't stand this anymore. I can stand it. I can't. I can. I can't. I can. There's a dream of becoming. We are still walking towards ourselves through the dark. The writing looks for a place to be still and there isn't anywhere. The ground is wet with something. I can't make it out. Is this the kind of thing people do together? I've forgotten together. Once I loved a man and a woman. And then again. And again. There's the beating heart of this. The history of things. The certainty that things will never be the same but always the same. The Nobel prizes have been awarded. The Universe Is Not Locally Real, the headline announces. There's a light here that never goes out. Recently, there's nothing to say to you. I am reaching for new words, that have not been formed yet. I want to be patient. I want to live with this. I don't want to live with this. I want to live with this. Sitting in the conference room, I look out the window. My boss tells me that she is not keeping me here. I know I say. Our window is so high up I can't tell if it's raining anymore. Somewhere in the building I hear a phone ringing. A high pitched screaming. Someone has brought a child to work. And then the sound of music, maybe piano. Just faint enough that I forget about it the moment I hear it.