“The words gave us the power to recognize his worthiness; our glyphs clawed their way into his insides — pulling at the light, the warmth, the virtue… It was why we were there. But at the same time, as all this love welled up, desire for the light — I began to feel a restless anger, too. It was resentment that he did not have the words as well. If he did, they were not as many — not very discernable amidst the gears and equations. So many numerals, but few characters that made sounds, or breathed microcosms of objects, people, or concepts. And in that moment I felt such guilt for this blasphemy — how could I find flaw in such a beautiful creature?
I resolved to quench my doubts, my criticisms, for what I saw was so lovely that I thought it must transcend words. Light above all, I told myself. Light above all. But then what were my words for? It did not work. I could not deny them, it seemed, for he sensed my inner censures; I could feel him pulling away as he sat by my bed, so slowly, but surely that when I died, it was a relief. I’d relieved him of this reflection of his inadequacies.”
Then came a scrawled line, and below, a question: “Usable? Ugh.” Journals really do have debatable usefulness. I’ve spent so much time recently trying to change the way I think. It seems like it is too sunny and beautiful, and there are too many things to learn and do, to sit scrawling cursive in a tiny book. Sometimes I look at my old books in disgust, thinking about how the practice of writing — but really it’s the thinking that happens before the writing, the processing — has stolen from me. The attention alone, when I could have been… I don’t know… Blowing bubbles?
“All the things I say, grammatically correct but socially aphasic, all instead of rubbing myself up against you… The frumpish pride, incompatible with happiness”
“I am pressed up against the glass — an observer ever, lost to my companions. How can I meet them in the story that unfolds as a true character, if I am so bloated with narrative analysis? I am not real. None of these will ever look into my eyes like I am one of the great women of old, from Gone with the Wind or Casablanca. My silhouette will not be painted on his memory with the rest of the female leads — I just have the words. Sometimes they are little consolation.”
Of course, this was crossed out, with the words “narcissistic” written at the bottom (a lot of lines ended up that way). And of course —
“It was then that he shouted back at me. ‘You say you always wanted someone to play opposite you!’
“‘Yes? What of it?’
“‘You’re a fool. You will never play opposite me, nor anyone else! You’re the author.'”
I’m really willing to not* be anymore, thank you. I’m going to go think about something normal. Shoes?