futurebird's Diaryland Diary
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I can write about it, though!
I pass this clock when I walk to and from the Hunt.
I can picture how the future will be for him. I keep seeing him, five or so years from now, waking up in a well lit apartment, very white light. The city is new York perhaps. He has a S.0. not a girlfriend, certainly not a wife. She is tall with long dark hair. She works in the arts too . . naturally. They are very poor but not too poor and, most important, he has work that afternoon. And the morning space is free for some quiet conversation, a glance out the window and a pigeon takes off, then more soft words, words too soft for me to
hear.
And it all goes rushing away from me, suddenly. I�m here where it is night and the light is very ... yellow, and it is too cold if I open the window and too hot if I close it.
I am the beaten and lonely dog who has been in its cage for too long. I�m mad with wonder at these visions of other people�s futures. Events that I will not belong too. I can write about it, though! I can tap out every thought as if naming the shape of my pain would diminish it.
I let my neck bend and stare at my hip. �Isn�t it good� I try to think "that there are lovely things in the world?" Good? Yes. It's good. There is no better answer to that question.
I know that will be the happiest moment of his life. There is nothing I can do to compete with that kind of happiness. There is nothing witty I can say, nothing I can give him or show him that will compare.
It leads me to wonder what my happiest moment will be-- I think my happiest moment (if I�m ever to be happy) would be to discover that of all that I�ve just written now not one word will come true.
01:55:04 - 2000-12-14
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