14:22 and the intemperance of temper

  • It hurts to see your­self being writ­ten out of people’s per­son­al his­tor­ies.
  • At best, I am a polite if some­what ashamed foot­note; at worst, I’ve been com­pletely erased.
  • I exis­ted then and — though I often doubt it these days — I still exist now. I think(?)
  • I exist on social media, of course. Because we all exist there. But only as increas­ingly vap­id avatars.
  • Am I an embar­rass­ment? A blot on your per­fect copy­book? A bruise on your cleansed skin?
  • Last night I dreamt. Vividly. Power­fully. And (I will admit, with some embar­rass­ment) per­haps wrongly.
  • Then I woke for a while. Listened to the rain, the swish of traffic on wet tar­mac.
  • Returned to sleep and to a night­mare that seized me, tor­men­ted me, froze me.
  • It was of the future. I don’t want to go there. I want to go back.
  • I’m not even sure how far. Just back. To when there seemed to be… some­thing.
  • A hope.

Comments: 2

    It hurts so much.

    Often you make me feel bet­ter about cer­tain things when you artic­u­late what I can­not, for what it’s worth.

    Rocky Balboa | 08.23.15, 16:43

    I’d hes­it­ate to say that I ‘artic­u­late’ any­thing. I’m sur­prised I man­age that, but thank you. I think it may just be down to more/too many years of prac­tice, but I’m glad this acid­ic screed is hav­ing a vaguely bene­fi­cial effect on someone.

    And yes, yes it does. All of it.

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.25.15, 00:49

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