Monday, October 27, 2008

What a keyboard was made to do...


If I could find a new way to feel like my old self maybe then things would make sense. As I cannot seem to find a new solution to an old problem, I walk off in search of an old solution. I never had a solution. Would another's solution work just as well? Probably not. A strangers answer to my personal question would probably fit about as well as a square peg in a round hole. These things never work half as well as they should. I am not myself these days, and I wonder while I sleep if I ever was myself. I think too much in sleep and not enough in waking and it occurs to me that nights are not for these endeavors. If I never was myself, then who was I? I am a stranger in my own home most days, and home is nothing anymore. Then again, it has been suggested that a family might be no more than a group of people who all miss the same place. What if I miss the security of a person's arms? Does anyone else miss that same place? And if I am the only one, do I have no family. Not only would I not be myself, I would also be homeless and hopeless. The best I can hope for in such an event would be that the arms I miss so much during the day (and even more at night) belong to a person who missed my embrace just as much. That would not be beyond reason to hope for. I am not yet hopeless.

The words that fall from the busy tasks of my fingertips do not seem like my own, and I am certain my voice does not speak them. The voice that others hear fall from my lips is different from the one I hear in concert to the clicking of the keys. I wonder sometimes if the rest of the world even hears the words I intend them to. If my voice is different, why wouldn't my words be?

The other day my phone rang and I went to the door in the hopes that I would see your face on the other side. We've become so disconnected that we would rather phone across a wall rather than walk a few steps to see each other. Even with the people we are closest with we do this. Why?

Time and space seem to form around the life I am building, and I feel myself swinging through time in a way that i have only heard described by Vonnegut. I swung forward recently. The flash of the life was a sight to behold, that was for certain. I could remember everything that came in between and I feel sure that i will dream it tonight once you put me to sleep. As it stands, you sleep now under the crook of my arm and I swing back. Things that have come before this point in time flash in front of my eyes and my finger click on in the attempt to record it all in some inadequate shadow of what is happening. I swing back, and then forward again. The process repeats, and my pendulum will continue to do so. If I thought enough about this, this would frighten me beyond words. As my words continue are continuing to be born into this world, I can reasonably assume that I am not thinking too much on this. My swing forward was a sight to behold, and I think you would have liked it very much. You will see it with me someday, that I know.

Maybe this is what happens when things are working the way they should. What is time in relation to matters of love? Should we count time in centuries? Or rather do we cherish every nanosecond as though it is an hour? I am both here and years ahead all at once. In many ways I want to continue this path, but at the moment I want nothing more than to turn back the clock a few hours so that I can prolong this moment with you. I want to go forward, backward, and stay stationary with you. I want all of these things all at once. No wonder I am swinging through time in such a way. There is no other reasonable explanation.

The only thing that remains is to ask if you miss my embrace as I do yours. But, as usual, you give me an answer before I've asked the question.

-kpp.

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