I got like all cut up again, like inside, a few weeks ago.
All this many recovering days later, the blood still trickles out of me, when it wants. Reminding me that it happened.
But I don’t recognize it anymore as belonging to me.
I’m detached from all the private betrayals. Using up what I still can and ignoring the rest.
Like the stampeding heart rate, telling me I must be hysterical. Close my eyes and sleep right through it.
The currents of my particular life are at once both so much more and so much less of me than they have ever been. Not at all what I anticipated when I ever, albeit rarely, honed in on the concept of future.
The negative space is exploding. Extreme shadow to the nth.
I watch the super-8 movies of my body and subsequent mind at age three, at age four. And I imagine I can see it, feel it almost. The way I was already lost, isolated, set adrift.
There is good in it, life. Has shock value. Like a mischievous saboteur hiding in the bushes, jumping out and screaming in our faces when we’re least expecting it.
And we drop everything we were trying to handle: the stability, the sanity.
It’s all over in a single instant.