I've been quiet for too long; they are jammed between my ears. Rows and rows of incomprehensible garble, each more urgent than the next, with materials that have lost its realness by overstaying in grey matter. It is entirely my fault, really; I'd spent the day ill with grief. Ill with loss and unforgiveness that only orgasms – or something quite as tragic – could purge.
I miss telling stories. I miss remembering through stories. And the riot in my head makes me long for everything else. Because everything else and this awful longing is more real than I. And what is left of my realness are mere fragments of thoughts and broken languages directed to everyone and no one.
Everyone but me. No one but me.
Which is why I am wondering about the density of the voices in your head. I'm wondering if you fancy bartering them with mine so that, perhaps, I might gain some realness by accommodating your stories in my head and you might gain some of mine – if not with reciprocity, then with understanding.
Or pity.
(Isn't that the crux of having an orgasm in someone's arms? Validation.)
Nevertheless, even if your mind is clear and your body is spent, and the voices within you are satisfied, then I'd be all the gladder for you. For your selective absent-mindedness, for you companionable busyness, I would be glad. For anything with the glimpse of movement and realness in either of us I would be glad.
Better one of us than both stuck in this riotous ether, no? And I have faith in you and your hands and sensory organs. I have faith that you're real enough to sling both of us back into the solitary flow of things.
The realness of everything that forgives and flows.
