I could never say what I really wanted to say.

Instead I said things I never intended to; sometimes eloquent, more often awkward. But the feeling (tight, rising, stretched like a nervous rubber-band)

Won't go away. The feeling – growing, expanding, consuming, like a violent, beautiful, chaotic crescendo of thunderstorms and violins—

Lets down just before the climax.

It's like riding a wave that seems on its way up to the sky, exhilarating on the going-up, wind whistling through your ears, you're almost there, the blue is so close, an inch and you could brush it with your

fingertips—

But suddenly you are plummeting into that deep dark valley of water again, whoosh, watching the sky get swallowed thirstily up, and your stomach sinks sub-level with the rocking let-down, green-sick, as you watch everything disappear.

(Tepid applause.)

-

If only I could scream out the colors, could let the feelings and the thoughts suffuse out like effortless liquid. Then I wouldn't need to worry about what to say, wouldn't have to fret over what you or he or she might think. I would be "free" from shadow-chasing,

free from this agonizing inability to express –

To say—

-

Somewhere, there is feeling of loss that is horrifying in its permanence. Not a relative, not a close friend, not even a beloved pet. Only a fragment of myself. It's silly to mourn such a thing, but I'm conceited enough to bring flowers for myself.

Why can't I do what I once did? Where did it all go, the unthinking bliss of childhood, those strange delectable scents of my more emotional years, wafting up into the nose of my memory, dancing just out of reach. Slipping like a catfish, sly, slimy, smooth, beautiful, ugly, cruel. I no longer own these memories.

They are handed over, one by one, to Time.


Basically just a stream-of-consciousness...still grappling with the sense of regression as a writer, heh.