I grasp my fingers, feeling my alligator skin, half listening to the various arguments in favor of, opposed to, and whatever. I look across the table and am more concerned with her current emotional state than any of the words that are floating about and the politics hanging off of them; pulling everything down with their weight.
This silence is deafening... deadening... I just want to hear some words, some feelings, some openings, some closure. I always have needed a "how are you?" to match my endless stream of consciousness questions deflecting from me.
My theory is that they feel so intensely the way the world affects them that they can't totally understand how they affect the world, she said. All I could think was that she must be talking about me... You and I are alike in that way, yet so opposite in the way we react to/ communicate/ interpret/ experience that....
I run my fingers over the sandpaper that is my knuckles, and try to focus on the conversation. It can feel so lonely here sometimes, even though there are at least hundreds of people around on a good day. But every once in a while, you have a moment or an experience that makes you stop.... stop all the internally focused monotony, and realize that your actions impact others... Partly, it's the grading. I mean, not for everyone, but at least for me, it's a built in fail-safe. You enter that number and look at the total and see the result... It's a moment that I dread, but one that happens every semester. And that moment stops me in my tracks. It is one of those "flashes of compassion," as Pema calls them. It stops me and makes me feel that soft spot...
I'm sure you have them too, but I am pretty sure you have totally blocked yourself to them; preferring to maintain a narrative that involves never crying, selfishness, and excellent skills of dishonesty.
I feel the tingle of my fingers, almost frost-bitten, grasping onto the brakes, as I ride in this moment. I think of everything I wish to say to you, but each word seems to freeze and shatter as I imagine my fingers would right now, smashing into the billions of pieces of this narrative. It's why I don't have time for bullshit poetry, I think... It's why my words are always disjointed and only semi-poetic on a good day... I don't know what to say to you, how to articulate this experience, my needs or my desires... but I tried, and I try, and I will continue to try to say these things to you or you or all the you's that grace the series of words here and in my head, which is more than I can say for most people that have penetrated the fortress that is 10 years of grief.
I look down at my fingers on the keyboard. They pause. I don't know how to finish this... I never know how to end things. I just leave; Close the door and try not to look back; make a clean getaway... But these words creep out of my fingers non-poetically wishing I knew how to end this or that, start that or this, attach and love, affect and be affected by...
http://youtu.be/zPRDBn2GHUY