it took me six days, but I'm done writing the entry for the 16th.
When is it finished? As writing goes it amounts to a rough draft of something as yet unclear. As emotions go it is a record of an incomplete fracture; a piece not quite broken off. A loss unrelinquished.
I know when I start writing in questions, that I am avoiding something, and most of the time I want to write pages of questions. But there aren't any answers, and that is why I ask. I am not seeking the truth; I decided long ago it was too painful for me to face. But it stands between me and real life, and I know people who have died never having reached the other side. I know I can stay here until I die, and I have no clue how to leave. Except for the part I've always heard and ignored, which now comes to me as intuition, a kind of emotional message attached to everyday things, like when I pour cold water in a hot glass—it breaks and I want to cry. I liked that glass, it worked fine. It was part of a set of nice heavy, tall glasses, undecorated, elegant and simple, with subtle imperfections which made it perfectly unique.
I dwell on these events as proxies for the real tragedies in the other one's life, the one I used to be, the elsewhere one. He is here, indeed always has been, just as the chance has always been here for me to reconcile with the real self he represents. But such a reconciliation is a non-story. We are enthralled in fiction by circumstances of departure; rifts between lovers, family betrayals and estrangements, tragedy and agony. In these things we recognize ourselves. Homecomings are only interesting as they relate to the leaving.
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