Out of bath, but in bath before and slightly despondent, the gentle shroud of not knowing, a mode of understanding perimetered by itself. Towelling worries now, because I have shunned thinking. I always forget, when you give to someone, you also give uncertainty. That lazy air of the afternoon, a raised hand gesture, is a difficult one to shake. It seeps into the floorboards and teabags, lies inside sandwiches and it is the white between newspaper type. It is tiredness above all. Tiredness and thought, however, raises doubts.
The chatter of bathwater, and the heavy pages of the old Russian classic, tempting to drown it and start something afresh, but if I cannot manage this, who am I to write a word? The sandpaper I use as a bookmark suffers in the humidity, drooping at the book's side, a wilting indicator of progress, this is where I am at.
This is where I am at.
I know where it started, through elimination. It did not begin stepping onto the path watching the door latch behind me, nor did it initiate at the crossroads, waiting in a shuttered light, light before heat and summer’s approach can be heard. The visible crescent of pathway running alongside the playing fields holds nothing either, nothing save for the petulant ache of a recently finished cigarette, the novelist’s cancer aide.
It started with a lack and a reminder, that fight of words and meaning, like the inscripted poems and how they mean less than you want them too. But sometimes I think they mean more. Away is my natural state, meaning is my gaze.