We wander down paths of collective nouns, affixing labels to forms and formless alike. Without these specific, burdened words, we are alone in our own skulls. The shapes between us blur until we are uncertain, shaky and shaken. Think through this filter; synaesthesia of the vicarious. Translate, translate, but never know what this means. We lose referents to dominant chaos. We crave the tangible to prove the ethereal, and mistrust skin or smiles or sibilants . A sense of touch divorced from the experience of texture. We become the compartments we learn to apply to experience. When all we ever wanted was to be a lexicon of our own invention.
I have lost the poetry of dealing with today. A day spent taut and sparring within and without. I am done. Weary and restless and knowing that tomorrow will leap at me again. I wonder what I’m doing. Not here. Amid the cherry blossoms I am home. But I cannot find the voice of my imaginary companions. And overheard conversations no longer amuse. I grow shrill and shouty in the re-telling. So we sit in silence, vying for distraction.
I was acerbic, angry, and anxious. All at the front of the alphabet crowding out the rest of my time. Avoiding later adjectives as if they might implode against the pounding of fingertips. The aversion to sleep hums at grasshopper pitch. Though, of course, I am far away from grasshoppers and have to remember frog song in the evening.
Today is without sense. Without structure. Without song. I miss former lives, former loves, former dreams. These years are my reality. And I can’t bring them into order.