the art ofd e t a c h m e n t
a s a w a y o f l i f e
i thought of you, tho i try not to. it seems like so many people i know intimately fall into a category i call reluctant human beings. reading franz kafka keeps me sane. i am disowned by incorrigibles...
the phone rings. i cradle the receiver. unwilling transmission difficulties cloud my ears, as the reluctant one hangs up. dial tone...
a shadow covered the sun like a wisp of hair over your eyes, and i could see you in all of your frightened glory, and i missed you for a microsecond or lifetime. my feeling ran from the eclipse. the inevitablility of insignificant others resumed...
i saw an old friend today. he had been a collaborator, a sharer of interests...
then he joined the desaparecido. vanished, as if taken in by some secret police. i thought i saw him once or twice, but the person who looked like him confronted my inquires with closed body language. calls went unreturned, and i spent far too many moments imagining what offence i might have been guilty of to deserve such banishment...
he mentions my estranged son. i wince perceptibly. he has heard the other side of the story third-hand. fittingly, as i live in the third person. my daughter touches my shoulder, tells me she will return in fifteen minutes. we play catch-up, as if broken contact was incidental...
i did everything i can.
i do not think it was my fault. it was the recessive traits of the reluctant human...
b . w i l d e r e d
email: b.wildered@white-rose.net
d e s i d e r a t a number six front page | previous page | next page |
